I 


GIFT  OF 


THE  MIDLANDERS 


"  Girl,  I'll  do  it.     You  can  tell  them  so.     I'll  make  the  fight !  " 


... 


J  II    CIO 


- 
nake 


THE  MIDLANDERS 

By 

CHARLES  TENNEY  JACKSON 


AUTHOR  OF 


The  Day  of  Souls,  My  Brother's  Keeper 
Etc.,  Etc. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

ARTHUR  WILLIAM  BROWN 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1912 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


0,0? 


PRESS    OF 

BRAUNWORTH    &    CO. 

BOOKBINDERS    AND    PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN,    N.    Y. 


1U 


TO 

MY  SISTER 

MRS.  CHARLES  FREDERICK  BURGESS 
MADISON,  WISCONSIN 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    CAPTAIN  TINKLETOES 1 

II    WHEN  I  WAS  A  KID 20 

III  THE  DISCARD 42 

IV  IN  THE  WAY  OF  LOVERS      .      -.      .      .      .      .      56 
V  HER  GLIMPSE  OF  LIFE  ..-.*...      70 

VI  To  OCCUPY  THE  LAND        .      .      .      .       .       .      84 

VII    PIGS  AND  POLITICS       . 97 

VIII  THE  TRAMP  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN     .       .       .       .109 

IX  THE  BEAUTY  PRIZE       .       .       .       .       .       .       .134 

X  ROLLING  STONES  GATHER  Moss       ....     147 

XI  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  JEZEBEL       .       .       .       .       .     163 

XII  THE  ANGELS  APPEAR    .       .      .      .      ".      .       .     171 

XIII  MR.  CURREN  ALSO  HAS  A  VISION     ....     183 

XIV  BACK  TO  THE  OLD  TOWN    .  -     .      .      ...      .197 

XV  FIGHTING  BLOOD      .      .      .       .      .      .      .      .    209 

XVI  THE  JINNEE  OF  THE  TAILOR-MADE    .       .       .       .228 

XVII    THE  BACKWARD  TRAIL 246 

XVIII    THE  SENTIMENTALIST 255 

XIX  THE  WAY  OF  His  CASTE    ......     266 

XX    A  LITTLE  SILVER  CRUCIFIX 287 

XXI    THE  TINSEL  SHOW      . 303 

XXII    NEMESIS    . 320 

XXIII  THE  BETTER  PEOPLE     .       .       .       .       .       .       .337 

XXIV  THE  PRICE  Is  PAID      .       ...       .       .       .    354 

XXV    THE  COMMUNAL  LAW 360 

XXVI  LET  THERE  BE  PEACE    .                                              372 


THE  MIDLANDERS 


THE  MIDLANDERS 


CHAPTER  I 

CAPTAIN   TINKLETOES 

IT  was  the  morning  of  the  King's  Parade  when 
Aurelie  was  lost  to  the  Holy  Family.  The  Holy 
Family  was  on  its  way  from  mass  at  Saint  Louis  Cathe 
dral,  Sister  Anastasia  leading  the  sedate  procession 
with  the  larger  girls,  and  Sister  Laure  at  the  rear 
with  the  smaller  ones.  Aurelie  was  the  smallest  one  of 
all.  She  clung  tightly  to  Sister  Laure's  skirts,  for 
in  the  asylum,  one  saw  nothing  like  this.  All  Royal 
Street  was  rilled  with  bawling  Mardi  Gras  maskers 
ringing  bells,  tooting  horns  and  bumping  into  the  Holy 
Family  as  though,  on  such  a  morning,  there  should 
not  be  such  a  thing  as  an  orphan  in  the  whole  round 
world.  And  on  the  corner  Aurelie,  very  frightened, 
looked  up  into  the  eyes  of  an  old  man  who  stared  down 
at  her  with  crafty  and  deliberate  intent,  and  then 
stumped  after  the  procession  on  his  wooden  peg-leg, 
bound  round  with  a  shiny  brass  band,  as  if  now  the 
matter  was  settled,  and  of  all  the  orphans,  big  ones, 
middle-sized  ones  and  smaller  ones,  "light  mixed," 
"dark  mixed" — and  some  almost  black — there  was  just 
one  he  wanted,  and  that  was  the  littlest  one  of  all ! 

i 


2  THE    M1DLANDERS 

Many,  many  years  after,  a  black-eyed  and  vivacious 
young  woman,  whom  all  the  land  had  read  about, 
starting  on  her  wedding  journey,  threw  her  arms  about 
a  silvery-headed,  one-legged  old  rebel  and  kissing  him, 
said: 

"Now,  Uncle  Michigan,  before  we  say  good-by,  tell 
me  the  real  reason  you  stole  me  ?" 

The  old  rebel  chuckled  as  he  had  done  a  thousand 
times  at  this  same  vexed  question.  "Well,  you  had  on 
a  little  blue  wammus  and  little  blue  pants  and  I  done 
reckoned  you  was  a  boy!  So  I  follered  you  right  up 
close,  and  when  a  lot  of  them  Mardy  Graws  come 
along  blowing  horns  and  bumped  into  the  convent  sis 
ters  every  way,  I  just  grabbed  you  up  and  stumped  off, 
for  I  says :  'By  Mighty,  this  is  the  one  Captain  Tinkle- 
toes'll  want — this  littlest  one  with  the  little  blue  pants.' 
So  off  to  the  woods  we  went !" 

Then  she  bubbled  with  a  fond  reproving  laughter. 
"Nov*,  don't  be  silly !  That  story  is  awfully  silly ! 
But,  Uncle  Mich,  I'm  glad  you  stole  me — then  is  when 
everything  began  to  happen !" 

Well,  let  us  see  Aurelie  off  on  her  honeymoon,  while 
we  go  back  twenty  years  to  the  morning  when  Uncle 
Michigan  seized  her  out  of  the  demoralized  Holy 
Family  and  stumped  off  to  the  French  Market  lugger 
landing  in  Old  New  Orleans,  where  he  put  her  on 
Etienne  Guillimet's  crab  boat  bound  for  Barataria  Bay. 
He  gave  her  a  praline  to  suck  lest  she  cry,  and  turned  a 
crab  basket  over  her  head,  and  not  until  the  Caminada 
had  wheezed  some  miles  up  the  yellow  Mississippi  and 
turned  off  through  a  canal  leading  to  the  wild  Louis 
iana  swamps  did  he  take  the  basket  off. 


CAPTAIN   TINKLETOES  3 

Aurelie  still  sucked  the  praline  unblinkingly.  Never 
such  a  feast  with  the  decorous  Holy  Family.  Her  first 
taste  of  the  wicked  world  was  good. 

When  the  Cajun  captain  saw  the  child  he  was 
amazed. 

"By  damn,  ole  man — whose  ees  dat?" 

"Oh,"  said  Uncle  Michigan,  scratching  a  match 
evasively  on  his  wooden  leg.  "A  babby  done  goin' 
down  to  its  wimmin  folks — 'way  off  past  John-the- 
Fool  and  Africa  and  them  camps.  It's  a  right  lone 
some  country!" 

But  if  Captain  Etienne  and  the  Cajun  crew  had  re 
membered  they  might  have  known  that,  long  before 
the  lower  lakes  were  reached,  a  trapper's  pirogue 
shot  out  from  the  overhanging  jungle,  and  Uncle 
Michigan  handed  down  the  child  to  another  old  man 
who  sat  it  before  him  in  the  tiny  canoe  and  stared 
at  it  with  incredulous  adoration.  The  Caminada 
wheezed  off  to  the  south,  and  all  about  the  mighty 
woods  grew  still  with  only  the  hoot  of  an  owl  in  the 
twilight  gloom  under  the  moss-hung  cypress.  The 
little  old  man  still  stared  at  the  child  who  looked  back 
expectant,  yet  fearless. 

"Done  come !"  he  breathed  in  his  exultation :  "Done 
come !" 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  held  her  off,  in  his  eyes 
the  light  of  the  Magi  as  they  stood  in  the  door  of  Beth 
lehem.  And  when  Michigan  paddled  on  to  where  a 
great  bar  of  the  sunset  broke  through  the  forest  he 
saw  the  child  in  a  golden  light  and  laughed  his  happi 
ness.  "A  little  child  shall  lead  'em!  Michigan,  here 
I  be,  an  old  fool  reb  off  in  the  swamps  with  the  frogs 


4  THE    MIDL ANDERS 

and  owls  and  snakes  and  'gators,  waitin'  for  the  child 
to  come  lead  'em  to  occupy  the  land — and  here  it  be!" 

But  Michigan  was  silent.  He  had  made  an  awful 
discovery. 

They  went  on  past  the  evil  spikes  of  the  cypress  lift 
ing  out  of  the  black  water  where  once  a  giant  gar 
stirred  the  depths ;  and  once  an  alligator  crossed  slowly 
before  them;  and  once  a  gray  shark  swam  lithely  in 
the  salt  tide  setting  up  from  the  gulf;  and  once  far 
off  an  owl  called,  and  from  a  palmetto  overhanging  the 
canoe  a  copperhead  snake  fell  by  the  child's  side,  but 
she  seemed  without  fear.  And  in  the  last  rosy  light 
a  snowy  egret  sailed  above  them,  and  on  a  shell  ridge  a 
four-point  buck  watched  until  the  swampers'  pirogue 
had  stolen  on  into  the  black  wet  forest. 

They  came  to  a  tiny  garden  at  the  end  of  a  canal 
filled  with  purple  hyacinth,  and  all  about  the  thatched 
fence  the  green  cane  grew.  The  lean  hound  pups 
came  to  greet  them  from  under  the  palmetto  hut,  and 
the  old  man  lifted  the  child  and  set  her  there  among 
them. 

"Yere's  home,"  he  said.  "And  yere  you'll  grow  up 
to  lead  'em.  Lee'll  come  on  his  big  white  horse,  and 
Stonewall  a-chargin'  and  rarin' ;  and  ole  Jeb  Stuart 
and  Colonel  Maramaduke  of  my  ole  bat'ry.  And  up 
and  up'll  come  the  old  gray  lines  jest  as  it's  done  been 
revealed  to  me,  and  this  little  child  shall  lead  'em  to 
occupy  the  land!" 

"Old  Man,  you  been  drinkin'  too  much  o'  that  Cajun 
coffee  since  I  left.  Now  yore  ole  head  is  done  buz- 
zin'.  Did  you  feed  them  pups  ?" 

"Mush  and  pot  liqueh,  every  day,  Michigan !" 


CAPTAIN    TINKLETOES  5 

"Done  stretch  them  mink  pelts  on  the  ole  China- 
tree?" 

"Done  stretch  every  pelt,  Michigan !" 

"Done  tote  out  that  moss  from  the  deep  swamp  ?" 

"Done  tote  every  pound,  Michigan!  Done  set  the 
traps  and  run  the  crab  line  and  tend  the  lily  boom,  and 
every  minute  I  says,  'Yere  I  be  down  in  the  swamps 
where  I  never  surrendered  and  up  Nawth's  the  Gov 
ernment  and  it  ain't  never  surrendered,  but  now  Michi 
gan's  comin'  to  bring  the  child  that'll  lead  the  ole  gray 
line  to  occupy  the  land !'  How'd  you  find  him,  Michi 
gan  ?  Did  he  done  come  right  out  o'  a  cloud  o'  glory  ?" 

Michigan  pushed  aside  the  mosquito-bars  under  the 
palm  thatch  where  a  tiny  fire  flickered  in  the  clay  fur 
nace.  He  fanned  it  with  his  hat  and  the  child  gravely 
watched  one  old  man  and  then  the  other.  One  was  tall 
and  the  other  short,  but  each  had  lost  a  leg !  The  two 
brass  bands  shone  valiantly.  She  smiled  out  of  her 
dark-eyed,  thin  little  face  which  had  looked  upon  much 
brief  change  and  indifference  in  a  meager  little  life 
and  was  not  given  to  whimpering. 

"Wasn't  no  cloud  o'  glory,"  answered  Michigan 
mournfully.  "I  done  couldn't  get  hold  of  a  child  any 
wheres  till  along  come  a  lot  of  orphans  with  them 
convent  sisters.  And  I  see  the  littlest  one  and  just  then 
the  sisters  got  flustered  with  all  the  Mardy  Graws 
blowin'  horns  and  yellin' — " 

"Done  know'd  it !"  crowed  Old  Man  Captain  delight 
edly.  "A  cloud  o'  glory  or  some  excitement !" 

"Old  Man  Captain,  I  got  to  tell  you  something.  I 
grabbed  the  littlest  one — with  the  little  blue  pants ;  but 
we  made  an  awful  mistake!" 


6  THE   MIDLANDERS 

"Huccome  mistake,  Michigan?" 

"She's  a  girl!" 

Old  Man  Captain  looked  fearfully  at  Aurelie  in  the 
gloom  of  the  falling  night.  "Go  on,  now" — he  mur 
mured — "go  on,  now!" 

"How  could  I  tell  when  she  had  on  them  little  blue 
pants?  Just  like  a  boy,  Old  Man!  And  we  got  'way 
clown  in  the  swamps  before  I  found  out." 

Old  Man  Captain  could  hardly  whisper.  He  peered 
at  his  partner  doubtfully.  "Huccome  you  find  out, 
Michigan !" 

Michigan  was  more  terribly  embarrassed  than  he 
had  been  since  the  surrender.  His  pink  cheeks  burned, 
while  his  partner  pulled  his  own  white  beard  nervously. 
"Huccome,  Michigan?"  gasped  Old  Man  Captain. 

"Oh,  well,"  equivocated  Michigan,  "I  see  a  little 
chain  with  a  silver  cross  hangin'  about  her  neck  under 
her  dress,  so  I  just  got  to  peekin'  round !" 

Old  Man  Captain  was  terribly  shocked.  He  spat 
off  in  the  swamp  as  he  squatted  by  the  fire.  The  ser 
pent  had  entered  Eden.  In  twenty-five  years  of  wan 
dering  they  had  their  first  dilemma.  "How's  a  girl 
goin'  to  lead  'em?"  asked  Old  Man  Captain  mourn 
fully. 

Michigan  raised  his  eyes  with  a  great  idea.  "Who 
said  a  girl  couldn't?  Reckon  nothin'  was  said  in  your 
revelation  about  it  bein'  a  boyf  It  just  said  child!" 

Old  Man  Captain  stared.  The  great  idea  was  too 
big  for  him.  The  mosquitoes  were  drifting  in  with 
their  nightfall  singsong,  and  when  they  bit  Aurelie  she 
whimpered,  and  her  dark  eyes  sought  Old  Man  Cap 
tain's  appealingly.  She  put  out  a  trustful  hand  to 


CAPTAIN    TINKLETOES  7 

touch  his  wooden  leg.  That  was  too  much.  He  smiled. 
She  crawled  over  and  patted  Michigan's  wooden  leg. 
The  two  shy  old  swampers  laughed  together. 

"We  done  got  a  babby,  Michigan  !" 

"We  done  have,  Old  Man !  All  along  o'  yore  crazy 
notion !  You  wouldn't  let  me  alone  till  I  go  to  N'Aw- 
lyns  and  get  a  child  to  bring  up." 

"Wa'n't  no  crazy  notion.  It  was  revealed  to  me,  I 
done  tell  you.  But  I  reckon  it  didn't  say  it  had  to  be 
a  boy  exactly." 

"Well,  Old  Man,  if  we  keep  this  girl  we  got  to  quit 
driftin'  'round  the  swamps.  No  more  bush-cattin'  up- 
river  when  the  big  water's  comin',  or  turtlin'  down  the 
lakes,  or  diggin'  up  the  shells  for  pirate's  hide-tips. 
No,  sir — if  we  keep  her  we  got  to  stay  right  here  like 
we  was  a  fambly." 

Old  Man  Captain  stared  again.  This  was  a  sudden 
turning  of  the  long  road  of  romance.  Thirty  years  he 
and  Michigan  had  fished  and  seined  and  trapped  and 
drifted  logs  and  prospected  pirates'  treasure  from 
Grand  Isle  to  Butte  La  Rose,  and  this  was  the  first 
time  fate  had  put  a  finger  across  the  path.  He  rubbed 
his  head.  "Reckon  so.  Bein'  it's  a  girl,  I  reckon  so!" 

"Got  to  stay  right  yere,"  pursued  Michigan  relent 
lessly,  "and  make  a  home  and  get  a  woman." 

"A  woman  ?"  That  was  too  much.  Old  Man  Cap 
tain  \vas  dismayed. 

"Yes,  sir.  How's  two  old  fool  Johnnies  like  you  and 
me  goin'  to  raise  her  to  be  a  lady  if  we  ain't  got  a 
woman  ?" 

"Now  you  begin  to  raise  problems  when  I  thought 
everything  was  ca'rn,"  quavered  his  partner. 


8  THE    MIDLANDERS 

"Well,  how's  she  goin'  to  lead  'em  if  she  ain't  raised 
to  be  a  lady  ?" 

Old  Man  Captain  could  not  answer.  "I  reckon,"  he 
murmured.  "Only  yere's  you  and  me  hung  together 
year  in  and  out  since  the  surrender,  and  every  Christ 
inas,  Michigan,  I  whittle  out  a  new  leg  for  you  and 
you  whittle  out  one  for  me,  and  nary  a  word  o'  wim- 
min.  Twenty-eight  legs  we  cut  out  for  each  other,  and 
nary  a  word  o'  wimmen!" 

"Well,  yere  we  are,"  retorted  Michigan  helplessly, 
"got  to  have  a  woman.  Mebbe  we  can  get  one  of  the 
Chino  wimmen  from  the  platforms,  or  mebbe  we  can 
get  the  Bia  woman." 

And  the  next  morning,  after  the  child  had  break 
fasted  on  condensed  milk  and  mush  and  was  playing 
with  the  hound  pups  before  the  palmetto  thatch,  Mich 
igan  stole  out  of  the  flooded  forest  with  the  Bia  woman 
in  his  pirogue.  She  came  to  stand  over  the  child 
listening  to  the  confused  tales  of  the  wooden-legged 
swampers  who  did  their  best  to  explain.  And  the 
promises  they  made !  If  she  would  only  stay  and  help 
them  rear  the  guest  to  be  a  lady  they  would  roam  no 
more.  They  would  stay  and  tend  the  lily  boom  for 
the  lumber  company,  and  catch  fish  and  crabs  for  the 
trade  boats,  and  build  a  lean-to  on  the  house,  and  buy 
rice  and  red  beans  and  molasses  and  shoes — Oh,  the 
wonderful  things  they  would  do  if  the  Bia  woman 
would  only  stay  and  rear  the  child  to  be  a  lady ! 

The  Bia  woman  looked  down  Indian-faced  and 
stolid,  but  when  the  guest  came  without  fear  and  took 
her  hand  and  smiled  up,  the  shifty-footed  basket- 
maker  knelt  and  wiped  the  little  one's  face.  And  at 


CAPTAIN    TINKLETOES  9 

nightfall  she  came  again  with  all  her  goods,  paddling 
through  the  woods  by  trails  that  none  but  the  hardiest 
trappers  beyond  "the  forty-arpent  line"  could  follow. 
Nothing  she  cared  that  Old  Man  Captain  had  retreated 
to  the  swamps  in  '65  and  had  never  surrendered ;  nor 
that  Michigan,  who  gained  his  name  through  being 
captured  by  the  cavalry  of  that  state,  had  followed  Old 
Man  Captain  because,  certainly  if  Old  Man  Captain 
wouldn't  surrender,  and  the  Government  up  North 
wouldn't  surrender,  why  one  must  stick  to  Old  Man 
Captain.  She  came  because  the  child  smiled  at  her, 
and  she  was  alone.  She  had  lost  four  brothers  and 
sisters  in  the  great  storm  at  La  Cheniere,  and  the  years 
since  she  had  been  with  the  pirogue  makers  at  the 
Lake  Salvador  Temple,  or  at  an  evil  shrimp  camp  on 
John-the-Fool ;  and  once  she  had  followed  a  seine  crew 
to  the  open  gulf,  pulling  an  oar  in  the  glassy  calms 
with  the  best  of  them,  but  coming  back  better  neither 
in  money  nor  morals. 

Long  years  after,  in  her  bright  world  the  child  had 
a  memory  of  the  Indian  basket-maker,  stolid,  her  black 
hair  hanging  straight  behind  her  ears,  in  which  were 
two  brass  rings,  kneeling  to  blow  the  coals  in  the  clay 
furnace  and  roasting  live  crabs,  watching  them  writhe 
with  the  calm  of  the  savage.  And  another  memory 
was  of  the  Indian  woman  taking  her  miles  through  the 
swamps  in  her  slender  pirogue  to  meet  some  priest 
who  came  on  monthly  visits  from  the  lower  coast  plan 
tations,  and  thereafter  the  child  came  to  know  that  she 
had  been  named  Aurelie  because  that  word  was  found 
on  her  rosary.  Then  came  a  jumble  of  child  remem 
brances  so  fantastic  that  she  came  to  think  they  must 


io  THE    MIDLANDERS 

be  dreams :  of  the  long  hot  days  and  wonderful  sun 
sets  over  the  shoreless  lakes,  the  mornings  all  aglitter 
under  the  moss-plumed  cypress,  the  cardinals  and 
mocking-birds  flitting  above  the  floating  hyacinths 
around  their  tiny  garden.  Many  summers  Aurelie 
watched  the  eternal  procession  of  the  hyacinths  past 
their  palm  hut,  sometimes  so  choking  the  bayou  that 
it  was  a  sea  of  purple,  but  one  in  which  no  boat  could 
move,  not  even  the  log  steamer  which  came  down  now 
and  then  to  tow  a  raft  up  to  the  great  river  to  the 
North. 

She  grew  with  many  generations  of  hound  pups 
from  the  day  of  Ponto  and  Flora.  They  built  palm 
thatch  after  palm  thatch  when  the  old  ones  sagged  in 
the  July  rains,  or  the  floods  from  crevasses  drove  them 
into  the  tree  platform  built  in  a  live-oak  for  just  such 
dangers.  In  summer  the  two  old  men  toted  moss  from 
the  black  swamp  and  sold  it  to  the  trade  boats;  in 
winter  they  trapped  and  hunted  and  ran  the  crab  lines, 
and  all  these  months  and  years  Old  Man  Captain  lived 
in  a  great  expectancy,  of  what,  none  exactly  knew. 
Not  even  Michigan,  who  sometimes  would  shake  his 
head  and  confide  to  Aurelie  that  "Old  Man,  he  done 
gone  clean  crazy  this  time !" 

Old  Man  would  sit  for  hours  regarding  Aurelie  as 
she  played  on  the  hard-packed  earth  before  the  thatch, 
his  vague  blue  eyes  lit  with  his  vision.  Then  at  times 
he  would  mutter,  or  at  night  would  get  up  to  pace  the 
path  between  the  hut  and  the  bayou,  calling  out  phrases 
of  the  mighty  drama  that  had  touched  his  brain.  Some 
times  it  was  Lee  on  his  big  white  horse,  or  Stonewall 
rarin'  and  charging  or  at  times  it  was  of  Jean  La 


CAPTAIN    TINKLETOES  u 

Fitte's  pirate  treasure  buried  somewhere  from  Plaque- 
mine  to  Grand  Terre  and  which  Aurelie  was  to  find 
and  so  enrich  the  Confederacy  that  the  old  gray  lines 
would  rise  triumphantly.  Yes,  Aurelie  was  to  lead  'em 
to  occupy  the  land. 

But  one  summer  Old  Man  Captain  was  not  so  well. 
He  did  not  follow  Michigan  to  the  deep  swamp  for 
moss  or  turtles,  but  was  content  to  sit  and  tend  the  lily 
boom  at  the  end  of  the  canal.  While  Aurelie  chattered, 
and  the  Bia  woman  wove  her  crab  baskets,  Old  Man 
whittled  on  Michigan's  Christmas  leg,  which  he  kept 
hidden  under  the  coil  of  the  boom  chain.  Michigan 
knew  it  was  there  but  he  pretended  ignorance,  and 
everybody  helped  along  the  gay  deceit.  Christmas 
day  each  partner  gave  the  other  his  new  leg;  and  so 
long,  for  Aurelie's  sake,  had  they  lived  in  this  one 
camp  that  the  place  was  cluttered  with  peg-legs.  They 
were  used  for  all  sorts  of  purposes,  from  propping  up 
the  sagged  thatch  to  moss  frame  posts.  Those  wooden 
legs  led  to  all  sorts  of  domestic  complications.  Some 
times  when  Old  Man  Captain  got  out  of  bed  to  walk 
the  path  calling  on  the  God  o'  battles,  or  telling  of  the 
treasure  of  the  Old  Pirate  Folkses,  he  would  strap 
on  Uncle  Michigan's  peg-leg  instead  of  his  own ;  and 
then,  when  he  crawled  back  to  bed,  chilled  with  the 
dew,  and  Uncle  Michigan  got  out  at  dawn  to  make  the 
coffee,  the  latter  would  not  disturb  Old  Man  to  get  his 
own  leg.  He  gently  strapped  on  his  partner's  and  went 
to  the  swamps,  but  as  Michigan  was  tall  and  Old  Man 
Captain  short,  he  was  not  altogether  comfortable. 

And  this  confusion  of  wooden  legs  troubled  Aurelie. 
She  tied  a  pink  ribbon  on  Michigan's  peg,  and  a  blue 


12  THE   MIDLANDERS 

one  on  Old  Man  Captain's ;  but  in  the  dark  this  did  no 
good.  Old  Man  Captain's  head  was  too  full  of  the 
splendors  of  the  recoming  of  the  gray  lines  to  tell  pink 
from  blue.  Then  once  the  towboat  niggers,  Hogjaw 
and  Doc  Fortune  and  Crump,  gave  her  a  little  brass 
bell.  Aurelie  tied  it  to  Old  Man  Captain's  wooden 
leg,  and  after  that  everything  was  fine.  Michigan 
merely  had  to  crawl  around  in  the  dark  hut  and  rattle 
legs  until  the  bell  tinkled.  Then  he  took  the  other  one. 

But  many  a  night,  when  the  moon  drew  up  above  the 
cypress  wall,  Aurelie,  drowsily  stirring  under  the  palm 
thatch,  heard  the  bell  and  knew  that  Old  Man  Captain 
was  out  stumping  the  path  and  chanting  of  the  South's 
lost  legions. 

And  all  about  camp  and  over  the  bayou  when  there 
was  moss  to  bale  or  crabs  to  catch,  one  heard  it  tinkle, 
tinkle,  tinkle!  So  that  the  towboat  niggers  gave  him 
the  name  that  stuck  thereafter :  "Captain  Tinkletoes." 

Old  Man  Captain  did  not  mind ;  he  smiled  vaguely. 
These  days  he  was  not  so  sure  about  many  things. 
When  he  started  the  old  heroic  tale  of  how  the  child 
should  lead  'em,  a  number  of  extraneous  matters  got 
mixed  with  it — pirate  treasure  and  alligator  hunting 
and  the  weather,  so  that  Aurelie,  at  times,  couldn't 
make  out  just  what  was  expected  of  her,  only  it  was 
very  big  and  important. 

One  day  when  they  had  gone  on  a  deer  hunt  into  the 
swamps  far  to  the  east  among  nameless  waterways 
through  a  dying  forest,  she  stood  up  in  the  pirogue 
and  pointed  at  a  trail  of  smoke  miles  away  over  a  bit 
of  shimmering  marsh. 

"Uncle  Michigan,  what's  that  'way  off  yander  ?" 


CAPTAIN    TINKLETOES  13 

'That's  a  big  boat  come  'way  over  the  ocean  a-goin' 
to  the  city !" 

"Where  I  come  from?" 

"I  done  reckon  so.  And  up  beyond  N'Awlyns  the 
river  goes  and  goes — states  and  lands  and  countries, 
all  with  music  names,  Aurelie,  for  I  done  spell  some  of 
'em  out  on  the  map." 

She  regarded  him  seriously,  and  then  the  distant 
glimpse  of  the  great  ship.  "Ain't  I  ever  goin'  to  learn 
all  them  music  names,  Uncle  Michigan?  And  ain't 
I  ever  goin'  see  all  them  lands  and  states  and  coun 
tries?" 

Uncle  Michigan  looked  at  Captain  Tinkletoes,  small 
and  frail  and  gray,  humped  against  the  flambeau  box — 
and  he  took  Aurelie's  hand  and  whispered :  "You  sure 
air!  One  o'  these  days  when  Old  Man  Captain  sur 
renders." 

And  after  that,  in  another  year  of  the  colorful  slow- 
moving  life  of  the  bayou — the  lugger  men  and  trapper 
men  and  drifters  and  moss-pickers,  going  continually 
up  the  river  to  the  North,  while  she  watched  merely  the 
drift  of  the  lilies  with  the  tides — Aurelie  came  to  won 
der  what  the  world  was.  She  asked  Captain  Tinkle- 
toes  when  he  was  going  to  surrender,  and  he  smiled 
out  of  his  odd  blue  eyes  and  said :  "When  you  grow  up 
to  occupy  the  land !" 

Always  that.  She  asked  Uncle  Michigan  to  explain, 
and  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  mumbled.  "You're 
(eadin'  'em,  Aurelie.  Leadin'  two  ole  fool  soldiers  to 
the  promised  land  o'  happiness — right  yere !" 

So  from  the  first  she  knew  love,  an  amazing  and  pro 
tecting  love.  And  when  her  growing  curiosity  asked 


I4  THE    MIDLANDERS 

again,  Michigan  took  down  the  old  red-backed  map 
which  was  one  of  his  treasures. 

"Yere  she  be,  Aurelie,  flowin'  from  all  the  land. 
From  all  the  states  and  mountains  the  little  brooks  run 
into  the  big  ones,  and  the  big  ones  run  on  from  the 
Ozarks  and  Rockies  and  Alleghenies — Platte  and  Ten 
nessee  and  Ohio  and  Missoury — down  they  come 
through  the  big  river  to  us  by  the  sea !" 

"Michigan,  I'd  like  to  see  all  them  places." 

"Yes,  sir!  When  Captain  Tinkletoes,  he  surren 
ders!" 

She  puzzled  more  over  that  as  she  sat  by  the  lily 
boom  and  watched  the  baby  sharks  play  underneath 
the  flowers  and  the  giant  gars  steal  in  and  out.  She 
twisted  the  purple  spikes  of  hyacinths  into  her  hair 
and  stared  down  at  her  brown  little  face.  Then  she 
clapped  her  hands  and  pointed  off  to  the  north.  "I 
belong  off  there !  Where  all  the  states  and  mountains 
come  from  !  Done  goin'  up  to  occupy  the  land  !" 

And  one  day  Captain  Tinkletoes  surrendered.  Not 
dramatically,  leading  the  old  gray  lines  and  shouting, 
but  just  piteously  and  without  purpose,  as  great  dreams 
end  in  life.  Hogjaw  and  Doc  Fortune  found  him  when 
they  were  tie-cutting  in  the  swamp.  His  pirogue  was 
upturned,  and  Captain  Tinkletoes  was  under  it  in  the 
black  water.  Aurelie  remembered  when  they  brought 
him  into  camp — how  the  bayou  men  smoked  and  talked 
and  drank  their  coffee.  Etienne,  the  crab-boat  man, 
wanted  to  go  fetch  a  priest  from  English  Turn,  but 
Michigan  reckoned  not.  They  would  take  him  up  to 
Spanish  Man's  Point,  where  often  the  two  had  dug  for 
treasure  around  the  pirate's  grave.  And  there  they 


CAPTAIN    TINKLETOES  15 

laid  him  and  the  great  dream,  a  little  blanketed  heap, 
down  in  the  white  shells  over  which  the  gay  little 
lizards  scampered,  while  the  mocking-birds  sang  in 
the  green  cane  at  his  head.  Aurelie,  holding  the  In 
dian  woman's  hand,  heard  her  little  bell  tinkle  when  the 
black  men  shoveled  in  the  shells. 

Michigan  took  off  his  battered  hat  and  looked  about. 

"Done  surrendered!  And  yere's  me  that  follered 
him  for  forty  year;  and  yere's  the  Bia  woman  that 
did  the  cookin'.  And  yere's  the  little  girl  he  loved  and 
that  made  two  old  fool  swampers  quit  their  wanderin' 
and  settle  down.  Done  surrendered  to  God  and  laid 
his  ole  gray  head  to  rest !" 

Then  they  went  back  to  camp  in  silence,  and  there 
Michigan  gave  Captain  Tinkletoes'  sawed-off  shotgun 
to  Doc  Fortune,  and  his  razor  that  had  cut  nothing 
since  the  war,  to  Crump ;  and  a  little  old  piece  of  col 
ored  glass  that  he  had  kept  wrapped  in  a  boot-top 
since  '72,  to  Hogjaw ;  but  the  five  wooden  legs  of  Cap 
tain  Tinkletoes  he  kept  for  himself.  Just  keepsakes. 

The  next  day  Michigan  beckoned  Aurelie  out  to  the 
bayou  side  where  he  and  the  Bia  woman  had  had  a 
brief  talk.  He  lifted  the  child  and  pointed  her  hand 
off  to  the  north.  "Now  we're  done  goin'  to  occupy  the 
land !" 

"What  land  is  that,  Michigan?" 

"The  land  o'  joy !"  he  cried,  shining-eyed.  "That's 
where  you'll  lead  us  to!"  He  motioned  to  the  Indian 
woman.  "We'll  take  this  yere  little  girl  and  drift  'way 
off  yander  to  all  the  places  she  ain't  ever  seen.  First 
we'll  pole  the  ole  John-boat  down  to  Grand  Isle  so 
she'll  see  the  ocean.  Then  we'll  drift  off  Atchafalaya 


16  THE    MIDLANDERS 

way  and  she'll  see  the  big  woods.  Then  we'll  drift  on 
north  and  west  and  every  way,  and  she'll  see  all  the 
states  and  countries !  What  names  is  them  I  done  told 
you,  Aurelie — the  music  names  ?" 

"Californy,"  she  said  simply. 

"And  next  one?" 

"Arizony." 

"And  Montany,  and  loway  and  Tennessee  and 
Ohio !  All  them  we'll  see  and  more !  Lead  us  to  the 
land  o'  joy!" 

And  all  her  strange  after-life  of  laughter  and  of 
tears  the  little  girl  remembered  the  old  soldier  waving 
his  hand  to  the  undiscovered  countries.  And  always 
she  knew  he  was  at  heart  the  poet,  the  adventurer,  the 
lover,  whatever  else  he  might  be  ;  nothing  could  change 
that. 

So  the  next  day  they  piled  old  traps  and  boxes  and 
blankets  and  hound  pups  and  the  five  wooden  legs  of 
Captain  Tinkletoes  as  keepsakes,  into  the  John-boat  and 
set  off  to  find  the  land  of  joy  with  music  names.  South 
and  east  through  brilliant  wildernesses,  poling  through 
lily  jams,  sailing  swamp  lakes,  paddling  salt  marshes. 
Shrimp  camps,  oyster  platforms,  terrapin  hunters  of 
Grand  Isle — they  wandered  and  worked,  and  Aurelie 
came  to  know  other  children  of  all  hues  and  races,  and 
at  the  island  balls  learned  to  dance  with  orange  blos 
soms  in  her  hair.  The  murmur  of  the  sea  was  in  her 
ears,  the  moonlight  on  the  oaks  in  her  eyes,  and  with 
the  droning  Creole  violins  she  awakened  to  gaiety,  los 
ing  the  droll  seriousness  of  a  savage.  Also,  for  the 
first  time  she  had  her  face  washed  cleanly — by  the 
storekeeper's  wife  who  knew  then  she  was  not  of  the 


CAPTAIN    TINKLETOES  17 

undecipherable  Chino-Spanish-Filipino  breed  of  the 
shrimp  platform  villages.  But  when  the  balls  were 
over,  a  shifty-footed  and  suspicious  savage  woman 
took  Aurelie  and  led  her  off  to  their  ragged  tent. 
Always,  through  the  blur  of  queer  faces — black, 
brown,  yellow,  white — Aurelie  remembered  the  watch 
ful  love  in  the  eyes  of  the  basket-maker  and  of  Uncle 
Michigan.  Always,  for  these  were  what  she  knew  of 
love! 

From  the  Gulf-coast  islands  they  went  west  and 
north,  and  in  the  years  the  child  became  a  girl,  slender, 
lithe,  swift — keen  of  eye  on  a  deer  trail,  trapping  the 
mink  and  raccoons,  following  the  wild  bees'  flight, 
weaving  baskets  with  strong  brown  fingers  to  lure 
the  shrimp  from  under  the  lilies,  balancing  herself  to 
shoot  in  a  ticklish  "running  pirogue"  that  would  steal 
through  the  swamps  where  a  heavier  hunter  dared  not 
follow.  Thus  she  grew,  with  never  a  qualm  for  the 
blood  of  the  hunted  nor  a  doubt  of  the  Maker's  intent. 
But  at  twelve  she  was  a  woman,  blithe  and  unthink 
ing  and  kind-hearted,  without  fear,  without  guile. 

Perhaps ! 

At  any  rate,  one  day,  censured  by  the  Indian  woman, 
she  stole  from  camp,  swam  Grand  River  with  her  gaudy 
little  gown  tucked  in  a  knot  on  her  head,  dressed  in  the 
woods  and  appeared  at  a  Cajun  ball — with  a  wild  hya 
cinth  in  her  hair.  She  danced  and  laughed  and  be 
wildered  the  woodsmen,  pretending  to  know  no  Eng 
lish  when  the  Yankees  addressed  her,  and  no  French 
when  spoken  to  in  that  tongue.  But  standing  in  the 
heated  "ballroom",  she  sang  a  barbaric  song  the  Indian 


1 8  THE    MIDL ANDERS 

woman  had  taught  her,  posed  with  an  odd  theatric 
fancy,  and  then  ran  away  leaving  them  gaping. 

When  she  swam  to  the  John-boat  at  dawn  and  put 
her  hand  upon  Michigan's  as  he  fished,  he  started,  tried 
to  swear  helplessly  and  stopped. 

"But  ain't  I  growed  up  now  ?"  she  laughed. 

"Damme !  How  we  goin'  to  do  if  you  act  that-a- 
way  ?" 

"Which-a-way  ?"  And  she  drew  up  her  naked  little 
body,  poised  on  the  boat,  pressed  her  hands  over  her 
swelling  breasts  and  stared  to  the  north.  "Michigan, 
when  air  we  goin'  to  see  all  the  states  and  lands  with 
the  music  names  you  tell  of  ?" 

"Aurelie,  you  air  gettin'  to  be  such  a  big  girl  and 
such  a  pretty  girl  as  I  dunno  if  we  ought  to  let  you  see 
all  them  countries." 

"Then  I'll  run  off  and  see  'em  myself!" 

But  at  last  they  came  out  on  the  mighty  river  that 
Michigan  had  not  seen  since  he  left  his  leg  at  Vicks- 
burg ;  and  another  year  found  them  at  Memphis  among 
the  shanty-boat  folk.  Then  a  government  dredge  towed 
them  up  river,  the  Bia  woman  cooking  for  the  crew. 
The  men  used  to  watch  a  child  who,  from  her  house 
boat  deck,  would  put  a  bit  of  tinsel  or  a  flower  in  her 
hair  and  stare  down  in  the  water  to  admire  the  picture, 
or  would  smooth  her  gipsy  dress  over  her  hips,  un- 
noticing  her  audience.  If  they  hailed  her  she  pretended 
not  to  hear  them.  They  would  not  believe  she  was  but 
thirteen,  so  tropically  primal  was  her  womanhood,  so 
tantalizingly  wise  her  reserve. 

So,  up  the  great  river  of  her  dreams  they  went  for 


CAPTAIN    TINKLETOES  19 

months  and  months.  Then,  one  night  on  the  Minne 
sota  shore,  the  dredge  burned,  and  Uncle  Michigan 
cut  the  house-boat  loose.  It  bumped  on  down  the  river 
again  to  come  aimlessly  adrift  in  a  pocket  of  the  Iowa 
hills.  There  it  stuck,  and  all  the  dreamy  summer  the 
weeds  and  sands  thickened  about  until  it  could  drift 
no  more. 

And  one  day  the  exiles  climbed  a  near-by  hill  to  look 
down  on  a  town  buried  in  September  maples ;  a  decent 
church  spire  here  and  there,  the  clock  tower  of  the 
court-house  in  the  Square,  and  farmer  folk  driving 
homeward. 

On  this  prosy  common  day  of  the  Northern  Mid 
lands,  Aurelie,  with  the  good-humored  curiosity  of  a 
savage,  looked  down  for  her  first  glimpse  of  an  or 
dered  life.  Out  of  the  sweet  and  heavy  richness  of 
the  corn  bloom  and  the  sugar  trees,  from  a  white 
house,  half-hidden,  came  a  piano's  notes,  the  first  she 
had  ever  heard. 

She  clapped  her  little  brown  hands.  "Done  come! 
Michigan,  I  reckon  we  found  some  of  them  states  and 
countries  with  the  music  names.  We-all  come  to  the 
land  o'  joy!" 


CHAPTER  II 

WHEN    I    WAS   A   KID 

IN  September,  looking  from  the  court-house  Square 
of  Rome,  one  sees  the  ripening  corn  like  a  bronze 
shield  on  the  hills  which  close  every  street  end  be 
yond  the  arching  sugar  trees.  The  bottoms,  too,  are 
choked  by  the  lust  of  the  corn,  and  the  church  spires 
and  the  ragged  sycamores  along  the  roadsides 
rise  out  of  this  opulent  sea  from  the  river 
to  the  bluffs  as  if  drowning  in  the  perfume  of  the 
tassels.  These  west  bluffs  alone  seem  to  evade  the 
conquest ;  one  sees  a  road  winding  up  a  red  gap  among 
groves  of  oak,  hickory,  walnut;  with  the  crimson 
sumac  and  alders  showing  a  lighter  soil,  the  upland 
croppings  of  shale,  clay  and  stony  ridges.  Here  one 
has  glimpses  of  clover  and  oat  stubble,  rounded  stacks, 
barns,  windmills,  white  farm  homes  and  wire  fences 
about  shaded  pastures.  But  beyond,  the  triumphant  sea 
of  the  corn  stretches  north  and  west  across  the  Iowa 
Midlands,  for  there  is  no  trace  of  the  virgin  soil,  the 
short  grass  as  the  Indians  rode  it  when  the  settlers  of 
the  forties  came. 

It  is  a  land  fat  to  bursting  with  numberless  rich  and 
complacent  little  cities.  The  county  annals  show  you 
that  the  people  never  have  hungered,  fought  nor  suf 
fered.  From  the  first  every  man  had  his  bag  of  silver 

20 


WHEN    I    WAS    A    KID  21 

under  the  puncheon  floor  of  his  cabin  and  went  forth 
to  buy  the  acres  as  the  Sacs  and  Foxes  moved  away. 
The  second  year  they  ate  their  own  corn  with  the  ven 
ison  and  prairie  chicken;  their  schools  and  churches 
were  built  before  the  oak  in  their  own  cabin  homes  was 
dry;  and  the  first  grand  jury  of  this  Iowa  county  sat 
in  the  untrodden  grass  of  what  is  now  Rome's  main 
street  and  indicted  a  territorial  commissioner  for  mal 
feasance.  It  was  significant;  the  first  Midlanders 
were  insurgents  of  conscience  and  not  hunger-rebel 
lious,  for  never  had  they  felt  want  or  known  sacrifice. 

The  Indians  called  it  "The  Land  of  Beautiful 
Rivers,"  and  few  towns  there  are  which  have  not  a 
stream  loitering  near  over  clear  pebbly  bars  and  along 
blue-stem  margins  where  the  wild  grapes  and  crab- 
apples  lure  the  children  autumn  long.  Through  Rome, 
therefore,  flows  Sinsinawa  Creek  sleeping  the  summer 
in  leaf-lined,  sweet-smelling  pools  along  the  shady 
streets  where  the  boys  fish  for  shiners  with  their  hats  ; 
and  where,  in  October,  the  water  having  dried,  the 
oak  and  maple  leaves  drift  deep  so  that,  by  Hallowe'en 
all  the  town  is  filled  with  the  pungent  smell  of  the 
smoke. 

Rome  is  in  a  continual  grandmotherly  quarrel  with 
Sinsinawa  Creek ;  never  has  it  been  able  to  reason 
sobriety  into  the  laughing  jade  which  tumbles  its  June 
freshets  down  from  the  bluffs,  fills  every  hollow  of 
the  wandering  streets  and  vacant  lots,  plays  mischief 
with  fences  and  walks  and  goes  its  way  to  the  Missis 
sippi  across  the  bottoms,  leaving  its  mirrored  pools  to 
taunt  the  ancient  dame  of  a  town  with  its  wilfulness. 
Yet  Rome  so  loves  the  wanton  that  when  Earlville 


22  THE    MIDLANDERS 

wanted  to  divert  its  waters  in  the  uplands  to  run  a 
factory  for  that  aggressive  metropolis  of  the  county, 
the  protest  that  went  up  echoed  for  years  in  local  poli 
tics.  Earlvillians  called  it  "Sin  Creek,"  or  "Skunk 
Creek,'*  but  what  could  one  expect  of  Earlville  ? 

In  Rome  when  a  tree  interferes  with  a  sidewalk  the 
walk  is  not  built;  in  Earlville  the  tree  is  cut  down 
and  the  cement  laid.  That  is  why  Earlville  has  the 
railroad,  the  furniture  factory  and  the  Elks'  Club, 
while  Rome  has  only  its  memories,  its  rusty  fences  and 
its  best  families.  And  the  county  court-house.  The 
court-house  offices  and  the  best  families  were  a  tra 
dition  as  venerably  intertwined  as  the  ivy  and  bricks 
of  the  walls.  Rome  knew  its  position.  It  would  have 
sat  with  dignity  on  its  hills  only  Skunk  Creek — I  beg 
pardon,  Sinsinawa !  kept  pushing  it  off. 

Yet  none  in  Rome  more  than  mildly  censured  Sin 
sinawa.  Not  even  Wiley  T.  Curran  of  the  Rome 
News,  who  was  always  bothering  the  town  board  about 
street  improvements.  He  ought  to  have  known  better. 
Every  one  having  county  business  had  to  come  to 
Rome.  If  one  didn't  like  the  streets  one  could  go  to 
— Earlville. 

Wiley  T.  Curran  used  to  retort  that  a  good  many 
had.  Rome  contained  not  nearly  so  many  people  as  it 
did  when  the  war  closed.  Earlville,  then,  was  merely 
one  of  Thaddeus  Tanner's  cow  pastures.  Earlville 
welcomed  any  one  who  would  "hustle"  as  the  Boosters' 
Club  put  it.  Rome  did  not  care  to  have  people  about 
whose  families  nothing  was  known.  Every  one  there 
had  lived  in  Rome  since  1860  at  least.  Even  the  ob 
noxious  Mr.  Curran's  progenitors ;  and  some  of  the 


WHEN    I    WAS    A    KID  23 

old  families  tolerated  the  Nezvs  solely  because  Pat 
Curran  founded  it  before  the  court-house  was  built. 
But  those  families  were  few,  for  Pat  Curran  had  been 
one  of  the  fighting-  abolitionists,  and  southern  Iowa 
was  noticeably  in  the  stream  of  the  Kentucky  and  Vir 
ginia  migrations  during  the  secession  prelude.  To  this 
day  these  lower  counties  are  known  as  "The  Reserve," 
and  have  ever  stood  aloof  from  the  rampant  repub 
licanism  of  the  militant  North  and  \Vest.  In  Rome  still 
exist  dim  traditions  of  Tully's  Raid  and  the  copper- 
headism  that  was  smothered  in  the  triumph  of  the 
northern  arms.  It  lends  a  political  conservatism  and  a 
"best  family"  air  to  society,  and  accounts  for  the  tum 
ble-down  fences,  unpaved  streets  and  Arcadian  corner 
lots.  It  also  furnished  Curran,  of  the  News,  with  edi 
torials. 

But  no  one  who  was  any  one  minded  Curran.  In 
Rome  everybody  who  was  anybody  had  money.  In 
these  rich  and  mature  days,  having  the  static  order  of 
the  East  and  a  stationary  population,  more  than  a  gen 
eration  of  young  men  had  gone  off  from  the  priceless 
corn  lands  of  the  county  to  the  cheaper  acres  of  the 
Canadas,  or  the  irrigated  valleys  of  California  and 
New  Mexico  or  to  the  cities.  Retired  farmers  moving 
into  town  for  the  schools  and  freedom  from  stock-feed 
ing,  did  not  compensate  for  the  drain  of  younger  blood. 
Curran  lamented  this.  But  Curran  himself  had  gone 
off  to  swing  the  circle  of  the  West  for  a  decade  and 
come  back  a  beggar  to  take  up  the  News  on  his  father's 
death.  And  now  the  Neivs  could  cackle  as  it  pleased 
about  progressiveness  and  keeping  the  young  men  in 
the  county  for  their  fresh  spirit  and  lustier  ideals.  No 


24  THE    MIDLANDERS 

one  minded — none  of  the  best  people.  Anybody  who 
was  anybody  wouldn't  think  of  moving  away. 

Except  Mr.  Curran.  He  wondered  why  he  had  come 
back.  Sentiment  brought  him  as  it  had  sent  him  forth, 
as  it  directed  most  of  his  affairs.  Sentiment,  this  Sep 
tember  afternoon,  kept  him  sitting  on  a  bale  of  stock 
paper  in  front  of  the  Neivs  office  watching  the  town 
kids  bat  flies  on  the  vacant  lot  next  to  him.  It  was 
press  day,  the  week's  issue  was  run  off  and  Aleck  and 
Jim  Mims,  the  tramp  printer,  were  wrapping  the  mail 
list  to  take  to  the  post-office  in  the  wheelbarrow.  Mr. 
Curran  ought  to  have  been  busy,  but  he  smoked  and 
watched  the  town  kids.  In  that  same  lot  he  batted  flies 
with  the  same  fence  for  a  back-stop,  yelled  the  same  de 
rision  at  the  pitcher,  broke  the  same  windows  and  fled 
down  the  same  alley  when  old  Marshal  Bee  came  dod 
dering  from  the  court-house  on  complaint  of  the 
Widow  Steger.  Mr.  Curran  could  sentimentally  for 
get  that  he  was  thirty-nine. 

A  clamor  of  the  high-school  football  practise  came 
from  behind  the  curtain  of  yellowing  sugar  trees  on 
High  Street.  Only  the  younger  town  kids  still  lingered 
at  the  summer  diversion  of  fly-batting,  and  for  every 
urchin  who  hung  his  bare  legs  over  the  News  walk  in 
the  tarweed,  waiting  his  turn,  there  were  at  least  two 
dogs.  As  Jim  Mims  said,  all  the  yelps  and  kyoodles 
in  town  were  there.  Mr.  Curran  sentimentally  wished 
he  had  a  dog — he  felt  himself  a  man  worthy  a  good 
dog.  He  listened  to  Aleck  slapping  the  paste  on  the 
wrappers  and  watched  the  kyoodles  yawing  around 
the  kids'  feet,  scratching  their  spines  in  the  tarweed 


WHEN    I    WAS    A    KID  25 

and  grinning  up  with  all  the  pleasure  of  it,  and  he  said 
suddenly  aloud : 

"Gee,  I  wish  I  had  a  dog!" 

Then  somebody  whom  he  had  not  noticed — a  big 
dusty  man  wearing  a  new  and  absurdly  small  derby 
hat — stopped  with  his  hand  on  the  hitching-post  be 
fore  the  News  and  retorted : 

"Gee,  I  wish /had  a  dog r 

The  editor  turned  and  then  stood  up  and  yelled. 
And  the  big  dusty  man  took  his  hand  and  he  yelled. 

"Wiley,  old  top !" 

"Rube,  you  old  Indian !" 

Rube  grinned  all  over  his  swarthy  face.  "Old  top, 
how  are  you  ?" 

"High,  wide  and  handsome!" 

"You  don't  look  that  last,  Wiley.  How's  the  old 
lady?" 

"Aunt  Abby's  fit  as  silk.  Come  up  to  dinner." 

"I  intended  to.  Hey,  the  kids  still  playing  ball  on 
the  lot  like  they  did  when  I  was  a  kid !" 

"Season  closed,  Rube?  Where  did  your  bunch  wind 
up?" 

"In  the  cellar.  I'm  through  with  the  game,  Wiley. 
I  can't  throw  to  second  no  more.  My  'arm's  all  in. 
No  more  of  this  bush-league  ball  for  me.  Carmichael's 
still  got  that  job  for  me — chambermaid  to  his  livery 
horses  ?" 

Mr.  Curran  laughed  sorrowfully.  So  did  Rube  Van 
Hart.  He  rubbed  his  big  red  hands  and  then  a  telltale 
red  nose  and  looked  down  at  the  town  kids  who  had 
assembled  to  gaze  in  awe.  One  raced  off  to  the  high- 


26  THE    MIDLANDERS 

school  practise  to  spread  the  news:  "Hi,  Rube  Van 
Hart's  got  back  I" 

Everybody  knew  Rube.  Poor  old  Rube !  The  whole 
nation  knew  Rube  a  while  back — let's  see  ?  Was  it  with 
the  Cubs,  1901  or  '02?  Eh,  the  bubble  reputation! 
There  were  other  mighty  men  now.  Rube  had  gone 
back  to  the  "bush". 

"Next  spring,"  went  on  the  former  leaguer,  "I'll 
stay  and  coach  the  high-school  bunch,  Wiley." 

"No  you  won't,"  smiled  the  editor.  "When  you  be 
gin  to  read  the  Sunday  sups,  and  spring  training  opens 
up  down  in  San  Antonio  you'll  be  missing  some  fine 
morning.  Gone  to  help  break  in  the  Cub  recruits,  and 
then  you'll  play  out  the  season  with  the  Cotton  League 
or  the  Three-C." 

"No  more.  Here's  my  finish,  Wiley — right  here 
where  I  learned  the  game  next  the  News  lot.  Back  in 
the  old  town  where  you  come  back,  too,  Wiley.  Back 
where  we  was  kids  together." 

The  editor  looked  wistfully  across  the  court-house 
Square.  The  big  leaguer's  glance  followed.  A  bar  of 
the  sunset  lighted  the  dingy  old  court-house.  The  win 
dows  were  open.  From  the  court  room  above  came  the 
voice  of  some  lawyer  droning  his  plea  to  a  farmer  jury. 
In  an  office  on  the  lower  floor  one  could  see  a  woman 
bent  seriously  over  a  desk  littered  with  papers  and  re 
ports. 

"The  old  red,  west  side  school,"  murmured  Rube. 
"And  there's  Janet  Vance,  and  now  she's  county  su 
perintendent,  and  I'm  all  in,  and  you're  a  fool  editor. 
That  girl  got  ahead  of  us  all,  Wiley,  since  we  was  kids 
together." 


WHEN    I    WAS    A    KID  27 

Wiley  sighed.  He  pulled  his  short  brown  beard,  that 
Vandyke  which,  in  Rome,  lent  him  a  foreign  air  and 
gave  him  the  reputation  of  being  literary,  whatever 
that  meant.  Nobody,  not  even  the  fool  editor,  knew 
exactly.  Yet  nobody  was  afraid  of  Mr.  Curran.  The 
kids  spoke  of  him  as  "Wiley" ;  all  the  old  women  came 
in  to  tell  him  their  neighborhood  troubles ;  and  on 
High  Street  the  best  families  ignored  him,  even  with 
their  irritated  feeling  that  on  points  of  the  worldly 
manner  he  was  infinitely  better  versed  than  they,  and 
that  he  was  laughing  at  them.  It  was  known  that  Mr. 
Curran  had  been  to  Europe.  It  was  rumored  that  he 
had  been  in  jail.  One  can  learn  a  deal  in  each.  Mr. 
Curran,  it  seems,  had  learned  to  laugh. 

"Every  time  I  come  back  to  the  old  town,"  mused 
Rube,  '"I  wonder  why  you  didn't  marry  Janet.  Every 
body  thought  you  would."  He  added  apologetically: 
"She  thought  you  would." 

Wiley  shrugged.  Old  friends  can  say  much  and 
hurt  little. 

"Why  the  blazes,"  resumed  Rube,  "don't  you  marry 
her  yet?  You  and  your  old  shop!  Then  you'd  make 
a  living.  If  she'd  married  me,  I'd  been  batting  .400. 
Now  see  I'm  a  busher  and  going  down." 

Wiley  sat  listening.  "I  suppose,"  he  murmured,  like 
a  man  who  relishes  his  anticipation  but  draws  back 
from  its  ends.  He  had  swung  the  circle  of  the  West 
like  most  of  the  Midland  young  men.  Homesteading 
in  Dakota,  mining,  timber  cruising,  selling  real  es 
tate,  running  country  papers,  leading  forlorn  hopes  of 
impossible  reforms  in  the  wide-open  camps  of  Nevada 
and  Montana,  fruit  raising  on  the  Matagorda  coast  of 


28  THE    MIDLANDERS 

Texas,  exploiting  reclamation  projects  in  Louisiana — 
always  the  enthusiast,  the  dreamer,  gaining,  for  him 
self  nothing  at  all  except  the  ardor  of  the  game — the 
mighty  and  expiring  drama  of  the  old  West  in  the 
nineties  he  had  seen  and  lived  and  exulted  in;  free- 
footed  and  shiftless  for  sixteen  years  he  had  missed 
nothing  of  the  last  of  the  great  days.  He  had  written 
once  of  the  final  round-up  in  the  southwestern  cattle 
country  and  its  epic  note  had  aroused  the  magazine 
makers  for  its  brilliance  and  its  pathos.  A  dying  flame 
with  the  life  it  celebrated.  He  had  done  nothing  more ; 
he  was  back  in  the  old  town,  and  merely  Curran  of  the 
News. 

He  looked  from  Janet  Vance's  ofHce  window  to  his 
shop,  a  long  one-story  building,  unpainted,  gray,  like 
a  worm  that  had  crawled  hungrily  down  from  the  bluff 
to  High  Street,  to  stare  at  the  court-house  from  its  two 
grimy  windows.  You  would  never  have  thought  that 
out  of  this  lethargic  monster  came  more  contraband 
opinions,  and  into  it  more  unpaid  bills  than  any  print- 
shop  in  Iowa. 

Over  the  lawn  from  the  basement  jail  came  a  man 
who  smelled  of  carbolic  acid.  The  town  kids  knew  he 
was  a  "trusty"  and  that  some  of  the  prisoners  came 
every  day  to  get  the  exchanges  from  the  News  office. 
The  fumigated  one  spoke  pleasantly  to  the  editor  and 
went  in  for  the  papers.  He  rummaged  the  editor's 
desk,  opened  a  drawer  and  filled  his  pipe  from  the 
editor's  tobacco,  and  came  out.  In  the  drawer  were 
two  dollars  of  the  editor's  money  but  the  jailbird  did 
not  touch  them — that  wouldn't  have  been  playing 
square  with  "Wiley". 


WHEN    I    WAS    A    KID  29 

Rube  watched  him  go  back  to  the  court-house  jail. 
Around  the  Square  lights  were  coming  now  and  then ; 
from  Dickinson's  grocery,  the  Hub  Clothing  House 
with  its  Isenbaum  &  Kickenheimer  clothes  from  New 
York;  the  Palace  of  Sweets,  with  a  departing  group 
of  high-school  girls,  and  a  countryman  gazing  in  the 
window  mill-pond  at  the  gold  fish ;  the  First  National 
Bank  with  the  gilt  legend,  "Van  Hart  &  Donley," 
above  the  cornice,  and  before  it  the  historic  hitching- 
post  with  the  lead  bullet  implanted  in  the  copperhead 
riot  of  '63 — prosy  and  commonplace  it  might  be,  but 
how  dear  and  familiar  was  it  all ! 

Even  Wiley  T.  Curran,  the  town's  insurgent,  knew 
it,  now  that  he  was  back,  a  bit  gray  about  the  temples 
after  years  on  the  great  highway  beyond  the  everlast 
ing  hills. 

Rube  voiced  the  curious  call  of  home-coming :  "It's 
funny  how  sometimes  we  all  want  to  get  back.  There 
was  the  two  Schnitzler  boys  and  Morrison — ain't  he 
in  the  bank,  now?  And  you  and  me — once  Hen 
McFetridge  batted  a  fly  clean  up  in  the  court-house 
clock  and  stopped  it  for  six  months — remember  ?  And 
the  night  we  was  stealing  Tanner's  grapes,  and  you 
fell  through  the  arbor  on  the  old  woman,  and  they 
pinched  you — remember?  What's  Thad  Tanner  doing 
now?" 

"Still  running  the  county  board — soaking  us  on 
bridge  contracts." 

"Same  little  old  boss,  eh  ?  And  Boydston  and  Curry 
— still  on  the  board  and  putting  Tanner's  work 
through  ?" 

"Sure." 


30  THE   MIDL ANDERS 

"And  Old  Mowry,  the  undertaker,  still  living  across 
from  the  Widow  Steger's  and  watching  for  the  old 
lady  to  die,  eh?" 

"Yes — still  buying  his  groceries  of  Dickinson,  the 
old  lady's  nephew,  though  he  hates  him  worse'n  poi 
son,  because  he  figures  on  getting  the  case  when  she 
passes.  Yes,  sir — seven  years  now  Mowry  has  traded 
at  Dickinson's  waiting  for  the  widow  to  pass,  and 
every  week  they  expect  her  to  go,  and  she  hangs  on." 

Rube  looked  across  at  the  widow's  garden,  its  can- 
nas  and  fire-bush  brilliant  in  the  dusk.  "Suffering 
Johnson,  don't  anybody  ever  die  here,  Wiley?" 

"No.  If  they  did  the  News  would  have  a  linotype, 
Rube,  and  be  a  daily;  and  the  old  town  would  have 
street  lights  and  sidewalks.  Look  at  Earlville  with  its 
factories  springing  up,  and  the  way  they're  opening  up 
the  soft  coal  streaks  on  the  upper  creek!  Why  we 
could  have  had  all  that  if  people  here  had  allowed  the 
railroad  to  come  in!  They  chased  away  a  fifty-thou 
sand-dollar  canning  plant  last  spring  because  they 
didn't  want  a  factory  class  in  Rome.  I  came  pretty 
near  suspending  publication  when  I  heard  that." 

"What  Rome  needs  is  a  few  first-class  funerals, 
Wiley." 

"You  bet !"  prayed  the  editor  fervently. 

"Wiley,"  murmured  Rube,  "you  get  out  the  rotten- 
est  paper  in  Iowa,  and  the  old  town  it  has  no  manner 
of  use  for  you,  but  I  like  you.  You  ain't  batting  any 
where  near  .300,  but  you  can  carry  bats.  I'm  coming 
up  to  supper  to-night." 

"Sure  thing,  Rube !"  The  editor  glanced  to  the  back 
of  his  lot  where  the  cottage  light  was  glowing.  His 


WHEN    I    WAS    A    KID  31 

old  housekeeper  was  always  prepared  for  guests,  for 
to  Mr.  Curran's  table  came  every  unknown  itinerant 
of  the  road,  shy  farmers  from  the  backwoods  bottoms 
of  the  north  side  of  the  county,  blacklisted  railroad 
men  from  the  Chicago  strikes,  any  one,  in  fact,  who 
had  no  welcome  elsewhere. 

The  editor  languidly  snapped  his  watch.  The  press 
men  had  long  finished  with  the  paper;  and  although 
the  pettifogger's  pleading  still  came  from  the  court 
room,  the  warm  September  dusk  had  fallen.  Some 
where  up  the  bluff  a  cow  was  bawling,  and  from  the 
high-school  campus  came  the  caroling  of  boys'  voices. 

"Court's  late  with  that  case,"  murmured  Rube,  "and 
ain't  that  the  judge's  son  come  to  drive  him  home 
now?" 

A  young  man  was  getting  out  of  a  rather  smart  rig 
at  the  court-house  hitching-rail.  He  helped  after  him 
a  girl  in  white,  and  though  the  evening  hid  their  faces, 
the  frank  and  easy  banter  of  their  parting  made  plain 
their  camaraderie.  The  girl  tripped  on  to  a  store,  and 
the  young  man  sauntered  toward  the  News  office. 
Half-way  across  his  careless  hail  came  to  Wiley  Cur- 
ran.  Then  his  eye  went  to  Rube.  He  leaped  the  tar- 
weed  gutter  and  grasped  his  uncle's  hand. 

"Why,  Rube,"  he  cried  in  his  rare  friendliness.  "Put 
her  there !  Wiley  and  I  saw  in  the  Tribune  about  that 
triple  you  and  Kelly  and  Schmitz  put  over  in  that  last 
game  with  Peoria — some  class,  Rube !" 

Rube  grinned  appreciation.  "Flare-up,  Harlan.  My 
arm's  all  in."  He  held  this  good-humored,  lithely-built 
nephew  off  and  looked  him  over.  His  blond  hair 
curled  in  a  likable  way  for  women  and  his  smile  had 


32  THE    MIDLANDERS 

openness  and  serenity.  Yet  in  his  heartiness  there  was 
reserve.  His  clothes  helped  that  indefinable  impression 
of  class  and  poise  which  was  inherited;  but  above  all 
significant  distinctions  there  stood  forth  his  blithe  and 
common-sense  democracy,  that  uneradicable  quality  of 
the  best  American. 

"Harvard,"  went  on  Rube,  "don't  seem  to  have  much 
on  you." 

Harlan  laughed.  He  pounded  Rube's  dusty  shoul 
der.  "Come  on  up  to  dinner,  Rube.  Father  and  I  want 
a  line  on  the  world's  series !" 

Rube  hesitated.  "I'm  a-going  with  Wiley,  son. 
Somehow,  I  couldn't  talk  baseball  up  at  your  house. 
The  judge  is  all  right,  but  somehow  a  man  can't  hang 
out  at  a  livery-stable  and  feel  at  home  with  your 
mother.  She  always  looks  as  if  I  smelled !" 

Harlan  smiled  slowly.  "Oh,  come  on  !"  But  he  was 
thinking.  Everybody  knew  Rube  would  work  all  win 
ter  at  Carmichael's  stable  and  get  drunk  on  bootleg 
whisky  with  printers  and  farm-hands,  and  his  mother 
— well,  Rube  finished  the  thought.  "You  see,  Harlan, 
your  mother's  a  mighty  fine  woman,  but  there's  never 
much  between  us.  Up  at  your  table  my  hands  and  feet 
seem  so  blamed  big — and  once,  Harlan,  I  busted  right 
into  a  wimmen's  club  when  I  went  there!" 

Wiley  and  Harlan  shouted.  Rube,  the  black  sheep, 
at  Mrs.  Van  Hart's  club  meeting — they  could  im 
agine  that ! 

Rube  went  on  grinning:  "When  you  and  Elise 
Dickinson  get  married  and  have  a  home,  I'll  come  up 
and  tell  you  how  we  put  'em  over  the  plate." 

Harlan's  reserve  came  back.    "Rube,  I'm  not  en- 


WHEN    I   WAS   A    KID  33 

gaged  to  Elise.  Every  time  I  go  back  to  school  some 
body  starts  that  yarn." 

Wiley  watched  him  keenly.  He  could  see  the  rich 
grocer's  daughter  down  High  Street  apparently  wait 
ing  at  the  drug-store  corner.  Elise  was  going  East  to 
school  this  year — Bryn  Mawr  or  Wellesley — Wiley  re 
called.  He  thought  it  was  Mrs.  Van  Hart  who 
prompted  this  rather  than  have  Miss  Dickinson 
"finish"  at  the  Baptist  Seminary  in  Rome.  Mrs.  Van 
Hart's  word  was  of  weight  on  High  Street — and  the 
grocer  had  more  money  than  any  one  except  Thaddeus 
Tanner. 

But  something  in  Harlan's  straight-out  declaration 
decided  Wiley  that  the  mother's  grooming  of  a  pros 
pective  daughter-in-law  would  be  in  vain.  Elise  was 
an  extraordinarily  "nice"  girl.  There  was  no  doubt  of 
that.  But  what  attracted  Curran  the  most  was  some 
potential  rebellion  in  Harlan.  Judge  Van  Hart's  wife 
was  not  only  the  arbiter  of  High  Street,  but  it  was 
said,  with  show  of  truth,  that  she  ruled  her  family 
with  something  of  the  authority  of  a  grand  dame  of 
the  old  school.  Mr.  Curran  and  the  News  were  her 
pet  aversions — as  Mr.  Curran  mischievously  knew,  but 
nothing  had  ever  withheld  the  affectionate  friendship 
of  Harlan  and  himself. 

"Well,  I  didn't  know,"  muttered  Rube  apologetically. 
"All  the  kids  grow  up  and  get  married.  Except  Wiley 
and  me — but  then  we  never  growed  up !"  And  he  and 
Wiley  laughed  wistfully  together.  "Well,  I'm  going 
down  to  the  station  and  lug  up  my  stuff,"  went  on 
Rube.  "Tell  Aunt  Abby  to  have  hot  biscuit,  Wiley 
.  .  .  and  honey!" 


34  THE   MIDLANDERS 

The  town  kids  straggled  after  Rube.  "Nobody," 
sighed  Mr.  Curran,  "wants  to  be  an  editor." 

Nobody  did.  At  least  nobody  in  Rome.  All  the  kids 
would  rather  grow  up  to  be  noble  and  handsome  and 
great  and  able  to  bat  .400  like  Rube  Van  Hart.  They 
would  rather  sneak  into  Carmichael's  stable  and  help 
bed  the  horses  than  go  fishing. 

Only  two  of  all  the  barelegged  crew  remained.  The 
yelps  and  kyoodles  had  wandered  home  or  after  Rube 
and  his  idolaters — all  except  the  Widow  Stegers  dog, 
a  long,  strange,  German  sort  of  clog  with  no  legs  to 
speak  of,  a  lonesome  boyless  kyoodle  that  had  to  go 
home  early  and  sleep  under  the  geranium  box. 

Harlan  looked  with  friendly  interest  at  the  two  urch 
ins  remaining.  They  were  a  fair  open  breed  of  the 
North,  tow-headed,  sunned  by  wholesome  summer. 
The  editor  smiled  out  at  them  from  his  desk  which  he 
was  locking.  The  Danish  boys  held  his  fancy ;  he  was 
given  to  sentimentalizing  over  the  race  fusion  of  the 
West,  and  fine  editorializing  of  that  sort  when  he  ought 
to  have  been  down  meeting  trains  for  the  personals,  or 
noting  the  fall  millinery  openings  around  the  Square. 

"Well,  Knute,"  he  began,  and  the  elder  of  the  two 
found  some  awkward  fearlessness  to  address  him : 

"We  just  thought  you  might  know  first,"  Knute  said. 
"Just  as  soon  as  the  jury  gets  in." 

Curran  glanced  across  at  the  court-house  again.  "Oh, 
yes.  Your  dad's  case  is  on,  isn't  it?  Hope  he  licks 
'em,  Knute !" 

The  boy  flushed  gratefully.  "Mr.  Mason  said  we'd 
win  sure!"  His  young  note  of  faith  arose.  "He  said 
what's  law  and  justice  for  if  Old  Thad  don't  have  to 


WHEN   I   WAS   A   KID  35 

dig  up  for  having  his  crusher  fixed  so's  paw'd  get  his 
arm  cut  off.  Mason,  he  said  what's  law  and  justice  for 
if  a  poor  man  can't  win  against  a  rich  man." 

The  judge's  son  listened  with  a  smile.  Next  to 
Wiley  Curran,  Lafe  Mason,  the  lawyer,  was  the  dema 
gogic  scalawag  of  Rome.  Wiley  reached  a  hand  to  pat 
Knute's  head.  "Little  man !  I  hope  you  win — you 
ought  to." 

Knute's  courage  grew.  "Well,  here's  Harlan,  his 
dad's  judge.  And  the  whole  county  says  Judge  Van 
Hart's  the  finest  man  there  is.  He  wouldn't  let  Old 
Thad  Tanner  get  the  best  of  dad  in  a  suit,  would  he?" 

A  curious  consciousness  came  to  Harlan's  face.  He 
caught  Wiley's  pitying  smile.  "Lindstrom's  suing 
Tanner  for  the  loss  of  his  arm  at  the  quarry,"  the 
editor  said.  "Tanner  offered  two  hundred  as  a  settle 
ment,  but  Mason  persuaded  John  to  sue.  And  I'm 
afraid" — he  checked  his  voice — "well,  contributory 
negligence  and  all  that.  Lord,  lord — two  hundred  for 
a  man's  right  arm — a  iworkingman's  arm !" 

He  looked  on  Knute's  sturdy  face.  Peter,  by  his  side, 
peered  fearfully  at  Harlan.  To  the  dusty  lads  from 
the  Pocket  quarry,  Harlan  was  a  young  man  of  con 
sequence  who  had  his  clothes  pressed  at  the  Iowa 
Pressing  Club,  and  bought  front  seats  in  the  tin  opera- 
house  when  a  show  came  to  town.  The  town  kids  in 
the  "nigger  heaven"  could  look  down  and  see  Harlan 
with  some  pretty  girl.  Also  he  went  to  the  frat  dances 
and  treated  damsels  at  the  Palace  of  Sweets,  and  was 
a  "Geek",  whatever  that  was,  and  studied  law  back 
East,  and  was  a  notable  person  in  Rome,  Iowa.  So 
surely,  to  be  the  son  of  Judge  Van  Hart  and  live  on 


36  THE   MIDLANDERS 

High  Street  and  own  one  of  the  four  automobiles  in 
the  county — all  this  went  with  law  and  order  and 
righteousness,  and  one  was  deserving,  without  envy, 
of  having  one's  pants  pressed  at  the  Iowa  Pressing 
Club.  If  Knute  could  have  apotheosized  all  that  was 
best  in  America,  next  to  Rube  Van  Hart,  who  could 
bat  .400,  he  would  have  placed  Harlan,  the  genial, 
kindly  young  man  of  High  Street  and  Harvard. 

"Old  Thad's  a  hard  one,"  Knute  added,  but  his  voice 
rose  to  a  triumphant  faith.  "But  law  and  justice'll  beat 
him !  Maybe  we'll  get  a  thousand  dollars !  Aurelie 
said  so.  And  if  we  get  a  thousand  dollars,  Aurelie's 
going  to  have  a  dress  and  go  to  the  high-school  party ! 
Uncle  Mich  said  so!  And  Uncle  Mich  won't  peddle 
no  more  bootleg  whisky  if  we  get  a  thousand  dollars ! 
Then  he  and  paw'll  get  along  better  when  he  don't 
peddle  bootleg  whisky.  And — "  his  voice  fell  solemnly, 
"if  we  get  the  thousand  dollars  maybe  Aurelie'd  go  to 
church  r 

The  editor  laughed  gracelessly.  He  could  not  see 
Harlan's  face  as  the  lads  raced  across  the  lawn  to  the 
court-house. 

"When  ?"  he  said  irrelevantly,  "are  you  coming  back 
to  practise  law  and  expedite  the  regime  of  justice, 
truth,  benignity  and  the  other  virtues,  Harlan?" 

"Next  year.  Father  wants  me  to  begin  with  the  old 
firm.  Donley  is  a  good  deal  of  a  hack.  So  there's  a 
chance  for  me." 

"Chance?"  Curran  sighed.  "When,  for  a  Van  Hart, 
was  there  ever  anything  but  a  chance — the  golden 
chance  ?  I  suppose  everything  will  be  cut  out  easy  for 
you.  You're  a  son  of  fortune,  Harlan."  He  looked 


WHEN    I    WAS   A    KID  37 

about  his  dingy  shop,  where  his  father's  dreams  and 
his  own  had  ended.  "Well,  son,  you  deserve  it.  All 
that's  best  in  our  best  blood  is  in  you.  I'm  glad  you're 
going  to  settle  down  here.  You  can  do  so  much — 
much  that  I  couldn't  reach.  Your  position — just  see 
how  these  little  Dane  boys  look  at  you — little  Amer 
icans  in  the  making,  and  you  stand  for  all  America  to 
them — justice,  law,  order."  He  checked  his  rhapsodiz 
ing  at  Harlan's  smile.  "Old  chap,  I  mean  it !" 

Between  the  two  was  a  comradeship  which  their 
years  belied.  Many  a  night  of  the  long  quiet  summer 
Harlan  had  lounged  in  Wiley's  shop,  and  while  the  old 
job-press  clanked,  they  argued  sophomorically  of  the 
day's  questions.  The  West  was  astir  with  newer  de 
lineations  of  democracy,  and  Curran,  the  inutile  Celtic 
poet  and  enthusiast,  felt  the  pulsing.  Socialism,  the 
initiative  and  recall,  direct  election  of  senators,  the 
checking  of  judicial  tyranny ;  these,  along  with  the 
little  common  issues  of  the  county — municipal  owner 
ship  of  the  water-works,  road-building,  drains  to  carry 
off  Sinsinawa's  overflow,  inquiries  into  the  Tanner 
Company's  county  contracts — all  these  Wiley  had  put 
before  Harlan  in  his  years  of  mental  growth  through 
high  school. 

He  knew  of  the  judge's  conservatism,  of  all  the  in 
fluence  of  birth,  breeding,  association  which  were  about 
the  younger  man,  and  he  felt  a  master's  pride,  a 
jealous  triumph,  that  he  was  forming  Harlan's  deeper 
ideals.  The  Van  Harts  had  a  tradition  formed  by  Har 
vard,  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  a  New  England  ancestry 
and  generations  of  thrifty  but  not  burdensome  wealth. 
A  tempered  blood,  a  certain  coldness  in  looking  on  the 


38  THE    MIDLANDERS 

larger  aspect  of  affairs,  all  this  went  with  the  judge's 
calm,  kindly,  imperturbable  example.  The  West  had 
not  broken  the  sense  of  their  culture.  They  were  the 
cautious  genial  Americans  of  the  constitution  whom 
one  means  by  "the  best  people." 

Except  Rube.  He  was  extra-constitutional  and  a 
reversion.  Even  Harlan  could  sympathetically  under 
stand  why  Rube's  hands  felt  too  big  at  his  mother's 
dinner-table. 

They  walked  out  through  the  warm  scented  night. 
Wiley  sighed.  "Old  boy,  I  suppose  this  is  about  the 
last.  You'll  be  gone  now  for  a  year.  And  Arne  Vance 
is  going  back  to  Wisconsin  to  finish  up  his  agricul 
tural  course;  and  Janet'll  be  too  busy  with  school  af 
fairs  to  find  time  for  our  meets  in  the  old  shop.  When 
we  talked  most  of  the  night — us  four.  You've  meant 
so  much  to  me.  Janet  says  we  ought  to  get  out  the 
July  number  of  The  Inland  Empire  for  Christmas." 

Then  they  both  shouted  irrepressibly.  The  Inland 
Empire  was  a  puling  monthly  the  quartet  had  started 
a  year  ago  with  some  vast  hope  of  harboring  therein 
the  genius  of  the  Midlands.  It  was  always  in  the  Earl- 
ville  print-shops,  waiting  for  the  editors  to  pay  the 
printers'  bills,  four  months  behind  its  date-line  of  is 
sue.  Janet  Vance's  salary  usually  went  to  helping  on 
the  hamstrung  magazine.  Wiley  Curran  never  had  any 
money,  and  the  Van  Harts  did  not  take  kindly  to  Har- 
lan's  connection  with  the  project. 

And  as  the  two  stood  chuckling  on  the  corner,  from 
the  court-house  windows  there  came  the  bellow  of  a 
man's  voice.  It  jarred  and  reverberated  far  down  High 
Street  with  its  sleepy  homes  tucked  in  the  dusk,  a  red 


WHEN    I   WAS   A   KID  39 

lamp  here  and  there,  fanned  by  the  air  of  the  odorous 
country.  Then  came  a  silence.  It  was  as  if  the  entire 
town,  the  sober  decent  community,  stopped,  shocked 
by  some  blasphemy.  But  what  the  two  men  on  the 
corner  heard  now  was  the  voice  of  Harlan's  father, 
quiet,  sure,  insistent  with  authority  against  the  hoarse 
passion  of  the  other :  "The  court  can  not — "  they  could 
only  catch  a  word  here  and  there — "intolerable  .  .  . 
the  law  .  .  .  Mr.  Bailiff  .  .  .  John  Lindstrom.  Con 
tempt—" 

Then  a  lower  bull-like  answer  dying  away ;  and  the 
shuffle  of  feet. 

Harlan  ran  across  the  lawn  with  Wiley  following. 
As  they  entered  the  basement  by  the  jail  door  a  little 
procession  came  down:  a  big  rough  man,  and  by  his 
side,  Marryat,  the  sheriff.  The  prisoner  looked  ahead, 
his  blue  eyes  dulled,  the  week's  growth  of  beard  on  his 
face  twisted  into  ugly  lines.  His  right  sleeve  swung 
empty  from  the  elbow.  Behind  him  was  Lafe  Mason, 
his  attorney,  perplexed,  whispering  to  Jewett,  the  pot 
bellied  district  attorney  who  listened  apathetically. 

The  big  man  went  down.  At  the  jail  door  he  stopped 
and  raised  his  huge  fist  to  shake  it  up  the  stairs.  Har 
lan  saw  there  his  father  who  had  just  come  out  of  his 
chambers  and  was  watching  Lindstrom,  his  face  a  study 
in  control,  in  breeding,  against  the  other's  primal 
anger. 

"Damn  the  law!" 

Lindstrom  strode  on.  "Damn  the  court !"  He  turned 
with  Marryat's  hand  on  his  shoulder.  The  jurors,  loi 
tering,  whispering,  putting  on  their  coats,  were  silent. 
The  judge  looked  steadfast  at  the  prisoner  as  if  in 


40  THE   MIDLANDERS 

himself  was  the  spiritual  inviolability  of  the  law  which 
could  listen  and  endure;  which  had  pronounced  and 
could  be  patient.  Harlan  was  at  his  side,  and  now  his 
firm  lips  moved.  "Lindstrom  lost  his  case.  He  had 
none — I  directed  against  him.  The  law  is  clear" — he 
stopped,  and  for  an  instant  Harlan  had  a  glimpse  of 
the  outrage  and  horror  in  his  father's  soul — "he  cursed 
the  law.  I  sent  him  down  for  contempt."  The  judge 
shivered  though  the  air  was  warm.  "Come  on — let  us 
get  the  fruit  for  your  mother." 

The  young  man  did  not  follow  at  once.  He,  too, 
seemed  dazed,  but  more  at  his  father's  suffering  than 
at  Lindstrom's  crime.  And  as  he  watched  the  jailer 
search  Lindstrom,  taking  from  his  pockets  a  knife,  a 
bit  of  string,  a  nickel  and  a  piece  of  tobacco,  all  piteous 
and  inutile,  this  pocket  of  a  poor  man — Harlan  saw  a 
group  on  the  court-house  lawn  outside.  Two  bare 
legged  and  terrified  boys  and  a  girl  who  seemed  moth 
ering  them  against  this  great  fear.  Lindstrom  saw 
them  also.  His  one  fist  shot  up  over  the  heads  of  the 
jailers.  "Ay,  home  with  you,  lads!  Knute  and  Peter! 
There'll  be  no  more  school,  now.  Damn  their  law,  their 
taxes  and  their  schools !  I'll  have  no  more  of  it  for  me 
or  mine!" 

The  girl  under  the  arc-light  looked  back  silently. 
"And  you,  too,  Aurelie!"  the  big  man  roared.  "I've 
fed  you  in  my  house,  but  there'll  be  no  more  school 
for  you !" 

Wiley  Curran  had  started  forward  with  a  cry.  The 
judge's  son  was  mute.  But  it  seemed  that  there  was 
graven  on  his  soul  more  than  the  picture  there.  As  if 
on  the  velvet  lawn,  against  the  peace  and  order  of  the 


WHEN    I    WAS    A    KID  41 

town,  the  rich  fat  land  attentive,  a  life  had  been  taken 
in  shame ;  or  more  than  a  life,  for  on  the  souls  of  the 
workingman's  children  there  was  wrought  a  hate  for 
all  time.  He  was  conscious  now  that  Curran  was  an 
grily  shouting  wild  words ;  that  the  two  lads  had  fled, 
and  that  the  slender  girl,  with  a  last  look  as  if  her  bit 
terness  were  too  large  to  hurl  at  them,  was  following. 

The  young  man  felt  an  intolerable  revulsion.  He 
suddenly  ran  to  the  corner,  staring  after  her  and  then 
dashed  on  along  a  street  leading  to  the  bluff.  When 
he  reached  it  he  saw  the  girl  on  the  trail  among  the 
rocks,  running  with  the  lithe  swiftness  of  a  doe.  He 
shouted  after  her : 

"Aurelie!    Aurelie!" 

But  no  answer  came  down  from  the  leafy  cliff.  And 
after  a  moment  some  guilty  consciousness  stilled  his 
tongue.  His  class,  his  kind,  his  tradition,  the  blood 
behind  him  fought  down  his  man's  rebellion.  He  went 
back  to  the  Square  where  his  father  was  waiting  in  the 
buggy.  The  men  of  the  town  had  scattered  from  the 
place  of  justice. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  DISCARD 

r  I  "*HEY  gave  Lindstrom,  the  quarryman,  his  free- 
A  dom  at  the  end  of  the  day.  All  that  time  he  sat 
staring  down  the  whitewashed  corridor  at  the  grimy 
window  beyond  which  the  reddening  maples  hung. 
The  other  prisoners  swabbed  the  cement  floor  or  played 
with  greasy  cards,  but  the  one-armed  man  did  not 
notice  them.  Marryat,  the  sheriff,  had  a  real  sympathy 
for  him  as  he  sat  in  the  stink  of  the  jail. 

"Come,  John,  man — wash  up  and  be  leaving.  It  was 
only  a  day  the  judge  sent  ye  down  for — for  cursing 
the  law,  John,  and  that's  wrong.  But  that  ye  lost  the 
case,  that's  bad,  too,  what  with  the  wife  and  yer  crip 
pled  arm  and  all.  But  Judge  Van  Hart's  a  good  man, 
John — and  I  doubt  if  any  man  in  all  the  county  was 
sorrier  for  ye  than  he — but  it  was  law,  John." 

The  quarry  worker  took  his  knife  and  soiled  tobacco 
and  bit  of  string  and  went  away  without  word.  When 
a  man's  fifty  and  on  the  ebb  of  strength,  and  has  felt 
failure,  and  thinks  of  wife  and  children  as  he  sits  hold 
ing  his  empty  sleeve,  and  knows  he  has  lost  against 
the  face  of  a  society  organized  ruthlessly  to  crush  the 
loser,  he  has  little  heart  for  the  comfortings  of  the 
jailer. 

He  went  away  a  new-born  criminal.  Before,  merely 
42 


THE    DISCARD  43 

the  discard  of  the  cities,  a  mechanic,  worker  on  the 
structural  iron  of  great  buildings  until  cast  aside  in 
this  dangerous  trade  for  younger  men  and  more  alert. 
Well,  that  was  right — the  old  worker  faces  that.  But 
Lindstrom  was  burly  and  strong.  Surely  in  the 
country,  the  fat  land,  there  was  place  for  a  man  stout 
of  heart  and  willing,  too  old  to  work  at  his  trade,  but 
too  young  to  lose  hope.  He  would  save  himself  from 
the  slag  heap  of  the  cities,  where  in  the  blatant  religion 
of  success,  he  who  fails  is  either  vicious  or  lazy.  So  he 
came  to  the  river  bottoms  where  his  wife  had  heard  of 
an  uncle  squatted  on  unclaimed  land  and  truck-raising 
for  a  livelihood.  There,  crowding  into  Uncle  Michi 
gan's  house-boat,  which  had  grown  through  the  years 
by  the  addition  of  several  crazy  lean-tos  until  it  was 
now  a  rambling  cottage,  the  Lindstroms  were  one  of 
the  few  very  poor  families  of  the  rich  county.  They 
were  big  with  the  hope  of  the  country  five  years  ago. 
They  did  not  know  that,  first  of  all,  the  farmer  is  a 
capitalist,  and  the  city  man  turned  adrift  there,  penni 
less  and  with  mouths  to  feed,  is  helpless.  John  became 
a  day  worker  in  Tanner's  quarries;  his  wife,  a  Ten 
nessee  woman,  long  expatriated  from  her  hills,  whin 
ing  to  be  gone  forever  of  Chicago,  was  now  a  queru 
lous  invalid,  what  with  labor  and  child-bearing.  There 
Lindstrom  fought  his  inevitable  losing  fight ;  but  with 
Old  Michigan's  truck-raising,  which  cloaked  his  whisky 
peddling,  and  John's  wages  they  all  got  on  until  Tan 
ner's  quarry  machine  crushed  the  chief  bread-winner's 
hand. 

So  it  was  damn  the  law!     When  one  is  old,  be 
wildered,  helpless  before  all  these  smooth  phrases  and 


44  THE    MIDLANDERS 

precedents,  all  this  fine  talk  of  sleek  men  to  the  jury, 
and  one  hears  the  judge  direct  the  verdict  against  one, 
does  one  mince  words?  Why,  then,  did  the  lawyers 
say  one  had  a  right  if  the  judge  knew  so  glibly  differ 
ent?  A  good  workman,  too,  on  the  rock  pile;  quiet, 
steady,  matching  his  strength  against  the  young  men, 
those  terrible,  merciless  young  men  who  fling  the  dis 
card  aside,  take  his  job  and  go  whistling  down  the 
road,  pipe  in  mouth,  when  the  day  is  done !  And  now, 
broken,  crushed,  bewildered  with  the  smooth  talk 
of  the  lawyers,  and  knowing  one  has  lost — does  a  man 
take  it  calmly  when  the  judge  sentences  him  and  his 
children  to  beggary?  No,  he  raises  his  fist — and  damn 
the  law ! 

Lindstrom  came  back  the  quarry  road  to  his  shanty. 
He  sat  across  the  table  from  his  two  freckled  sons  and 
the  old,  one-legged  soldier  whisky-smuggler  smoking 
his  pipe  by  the  wood-box.  They  feared  to  question  the 
returned  jailbird ;  when  his  wife  whined  some  com 
plaint,  as  she  held  the  baby  to  her  flat  breast,  stirring 
her  pots  over  the  stove,  he  growled  a  rough  tenderness. 

"There,  woman.  The  jail — you  can  smell  it  on  me, 
but  no  matter.  And  the  work — we  can  do  a  bit  yet 
with  the  garden.  It's  here  we'll  stay,  for  I'll  not  lift 
my  face  in  town  again.  They  heaped  the  filth  of  the 
law  on  me,  and  my  children's  name.  We'll  have  no 
more  of  their  town  and  schools  and  all.  If  I'm  no  fit 
man  for  'em,  my  lads  are  not — we'll  take  no  more  of 
their  time  and  money." 

She  looked  up  in  her  slattern  fright.  He  ruled  them 
with  his  heavy  Puritan's  righteousness.  Even  Aurelie, 
Michigan's  gipsy  limb  of  a  girl,  under  John's  foster- 


THE    DISCARD  45 

parenthood  these  five  years  since  the  Lindstroms  came, 
had  to  be  still  before  him. 

"Ah,  John !"  the  mother  cried.  "Take  the  children 
out  of  school  ?  Knute  ready  for  his  seventh  grade,  and 
Aurelie  in  high  school.  And  like  to  graduate  if  we 
can  get  the  dress  and  all !"  She  rubbed  her  bony  hand 
across  her  chin  to  ease  the  sting  of  the  burning  pork 
fat  and  muttered,  "My  man's  crazy !" 

"Damn  their  schools,"  he  growled — "and  courts. 
God  will  hold  us  safe,  not  man  with  his  fine  talk  of 
justice.  I'll  have  no  more  of  it." 

Old  Michigan  took  out  his  pipe  to  murmur.  "John, 
man — don't  take  it  so  bitter.  There's  enough  know 
you're  an  honest  man.  A  day  in  jail — who'll  think 
worse  of  ye  for  that?" 

The  quarryman  lopped  his  big  frame  over  a  chair 
at  the  table.  Year  by  year  he  had  come  to  extend  his 
authority  over  Michigan's  sorry  house  and  patch  of 
land  snatched  from  the  willow  slough  of  the  ever- 
changing  river  bed.  The  old  Confederate  had  taken 
himself  to  the  woods  when  the  Lindstroms  overran 
him  too  much;  Aurelie  had  been  the  bond  that  held 
him  to  his  niece's  family — it  made  something  of  a  home 
for  her,  mean  as  it  might  be. 

They  were  well  through  the  meal  when  the  woman's 
brother,  Albert,  came  in.  He  sidled  to  the  tin  basin 
by  the  window,  took  off  his  celluloid  cuffs  and  began 
to  wash  his  thin  red  wrists,  like  a  man  who  would 
rather  not  be  squarely  seen ;  he  snuffed  the  cold  water 
into  his  straggling  beard  as  if  it  put  sting  into  his  rab 
bit's  heart.  He  combed  his  hair  and  pulled  on  his  cuffs 
and  sat  down  with  a  fatuous  smile.  A  man  of  towns, 


46  THE    MIDLANDERS 

he  had  followed  the  family  from  Chicago  because  he 
was  too  weak  to  stand  alone,  always  the  under  dog, 
finding  odd  jobs  about  the  country;  a  canvasser  and 
agent,  forever  the  recipient  of  catalogues  and  contracts 
from  mail-order  houses  and  manufacturers  and  medi 
cal  fakirs,  forever  talking  up  his  nostrums  and  gim- 
cracks,  peddling  about  the  farms  and  villages ;  a  ringer 
of  door-bells,  a  beseecher  of  women,  a  pleader  to  buy, 
shuffling  in  and  out  of  gates  with  his  pitiful  cards  and 
dodgers — one  of  those  men  who  sit  to  be  preached  to 
and  stand  in  line  to  be  counted,  with  his  weak  chin  and 
flaring  ears  and  vapid  eyes  bulging — one  of  those  men 
in  short,  whom  the  undertakers  are  forever  burying. 

John,  the  burly  religious  fanatic,  with  his  defeated 
bull  strength,  hated  him — at  best  he  gave  the  tolerat 
ing  contempt  of  the  man  of  overalls  for  the  shabby 
collar-and-cuffs  pretense  of  the  pedler — collar  always 
soiled,  cuffs  always  frayed.  Lindstrom  glowered  at 
him  a  moment  and  went  on  eating. 

"Ah,  the  good  soup !"  said  the  pedler,  warming  his 
hands  over  its  steam — "it  puts  heart  in  a  man.  Mich 
igan,  you  can  dig  your  potatoes  on  this — and  Knute, 
it'll  get  your  lessons,  eh  ?"  He  smiled  vaguely  at  the 
boys — he  really  felt  like  somebody  to-night,  for  he  had 
earned  two  dollars  and  he  was  planning  how  he  could 
present  it  to  them  all,  raking  over  his  sordid  store  of 
cheer  and  evasions  before  handing  it  out.  His  sister, 
with  the  ailing  baby,  tried  to  warn  him ;  they  both  had 
had  their  strength  sucked  out  by  the  great  Dane's  mas 
terfulness — they  were  not  yet  far  enough  removed 
from  their  hill-cracker  ancestry  to  find  assertion  in 
the  air  of  the  North. 


THE    DISCARD  47 

Michigan  looked  at  him  craftily;  he  knew  John's 
mood  of  murder,  and  Albert,  the  fool,  was  tempting  it. 
"It's  coolin'/'  muttered  the  patriarch.  "There's  a  nip 
o'  frost  done  comin'  this  way.  It's  time  the  fodder 
was  in." 

"Well,  well,"  said  the'  pedler  with  his  cracked  gai 
ety,  "there'll  be  work  for  Knute  and  Peter  after  school 
this  week." 

The  wife  glanced  up.  Would  they  never  get  off 
this  topic  of  the  schooling?  John  put  his  heavy  hand 
across  the  table. 

"There'll  be  no  more  schooling." 

"Ah,  John!"  the  wife  wailed,  "will  you  ruin  us  all 
with  your  pride?  There'll  be  an  honest  way  for  us  all 
yet!" 

The  pedler  fidgeted  with  the  button  of  some  church 
league  on  his  lapel.  Down  in  his  crouching  soul  some 
faith  flickered  which  gave  him  a  martyr's  comfort 
against  John's  ascetic  will.  "The  Lord  will  provide," 
he  sniffled — "the  Lord  be  by  ye,  John."  He  was  facing 
the  winter  in  his  scanty  summer  suit,  but  he  could 
give  cheerfully  his  two  dollars  to  the  family  if  it  "was 
Lord's  work." 

"Lord's  providing,  and  not  man's,"  growled  John, 
and  he  flayed  them  all  again  with  his  truculence.  He 
had  changed  in  the  night  from  a  stolid,  yet  all-caring 
father  to  an  inward-burning  fanatic,  a  hunted  outlaw 
of  spirit.  They  could  not  voice  the  fright  he  gave  them. 
When  he  looked  at  his  sons  they  could  not  eat  so  fear 
ful  were  they  of  this  new  father,  this  new  man  of  the 
jail.  His  glance  went  about  the  silent  faces.  "Where's 
Aurelie?  The  girl's  not  here,"  he  went  on. 


48  THE   MIDLANDERS 

"She's  plannin'  her  new  dress,"  the  mother  quavered, 
"with  some  woman  in  town.  She'd  have  it  new  now, 
and  then  lay  it  away  for  the  party  at  high  school. 
John,  man,  she'd  be  the  prettiest  of  them  all  with  the 
new  dress.  Michigan  here,  he  tried  to  save  the  money, 
didn't  ye,  uncle?" 

Michigan  laughed  softly ;  his  hairy  face  lit  up.  The 
scared  lads  let  down  from  their  strain.  Aurelie !  She 
could  brighten  even  the  meagerness  of  the  quarry 
shanty,  then. 

"She's  too  much  attention,  now,"  growled  John. 
"She's  got  some  French  trick  of  making  every  loafer 
at  the  billiard  corner  look  at  her.  She's  better  away 
from  gowns  and  parties — aye,  and  that  priest  from 
Earlville  over  every  month  to  talk  to  her.  I'll  not  have 
it — she's  too  much  in  the  town's  eye  for  a  decent  girl." 

"Be  still,"  Knute  blurted  out  of  the  sob  in  his  throat, 
"she's  coming." 

The  eyes  of  all  followed  to  the  door.  Even  John  did 
not  raise  his  black  humor  now  she  was  here.  She  was 
in  the  door  listening  with  a  trifle  of  self-consciousness, 
the  long  lashes  of  her  eyes  quivering.  Then  she  was 
among  them,  dropping  breathlessly,  as  if  from  a  run, 
into  the  chair  at  Michigan's  side,  and  looking  about 
with  an  odd  defiant  gaiety.  Then  she  held  her  plate 
forth  decisively,  with  a  child's  prompting. 

"Mother,  I'm  hungry.  So's  Peter,"  she  caught  up 
the  boy's  plate  and  held  it,  with  a  bright  sidelong 
glance  of  affection  at  the  tow-headed  Danish  boy.  The 
woman  helped  them  with  a  murmur.  Michigan's  black 
scoured  paw  came  to  Aurelie's  slim  hand  under  the 
table.  Then  she  kissed  him.  It  was  a  strange  drama 


THE    DISCARD  49 

in  the  acrid  dissembling  of  human  feeling  that  held  in 
the  quarryman's  house.  But  it  stood  like  a  bloom 
against  their  meagerness.  She  had  called  the  gaunt 
cracker  woman  "mother,"  but  she  could  not  have  been 
farther  from  them  all  if  she  had  stepped  from  a  child's 
story  book.  The  two  foster-brothers  looked  with  un 
easy  fondness  on  this  daughter  of  the  South  who  was 
scolding  them  now  in  some  playful  vivacity  for  their 
dirty  hands.  When  she  talked  she  leaned  in  a  pose 
whose  grace  again  detached  her  from  them  all,  a  thing 
not  to  be  helped  or  hindered,  so  native  was  it  to  her, 
so  foreign  to  their  breeding. 

Aurelie  had  changed  amazingly  from  the  barbaric 
child-heart  of  her  Louisiana  days  when  she  had  run 
away  to  the  Cajun  balls,  kneeling  to  fix  a  woven  cap  of 
hyacinths  in  her  hair  as  she  stared  at  her  reflection  in 
the  water,  and  baffling  the  lumbermen  with  her  French 
of  the  swamp  people.  She  was  slender  now,  but  a  lithe 
girl  and  not  a  child ;  her  face  was  dark,  mobile,  tender 
or  at  times  hard;  her  black  eyes  had  the  flash  of  re 
bellious  tempers  and  coaxing  temptations — the  Dane 
boys  adored  her,  yet  not  even  did  little  Peter  for  an 
instant  suppose  she  was  his  real  sister.  Everything1 
about  her,  her  grace,  her  quickness,  her  nimble  tongue ; 
her  little  rosary  hung  on  the  white  bureau  in  the  tiny 
chamber  just  off  the  kitchen,  whose  door  she  had  hung 
in  red  chintz ;  her  habit  of  taking  early  coffee,  black, 
thick,  drugging — which  Michigan  made  at  rising  and 
brought  to  her  bedside  where  she  sipped  it  and  chat 
tered  with  the  old  bootlegger — her  defiant  assertion 
that  she  was  a  Catholic,  whatever  that  meant,  her 
smatter  of  French  and  Spanish ;  her  memories  of  wild 


50  THE    MIDLANDERS 

and  wonderful  years,  which  now,  in  the  crowded  dis 
comfort  of  the  quarry  home,  took  on  the  aspect  of  un 
thinkable  romance — all  these  set  her  off  from  the  fam 
ily,  from  the  dull  decent  town,  from  the  whole  world. 

She  was  the  best  rifle-shot  in  the  county ;  she  could 
trap  rabbits  in  the  snow,  and  catch  crawfish  with  a  bit 
of  twisted  willow ;  she  could  guide  a  dugout  log  in  the 
flooded  sloughs  with  a  trick  of  the  wrist  that  the 
northerners  knew  nothing  about;  and  she  had  scan 
dalized  the  town  her  second  year  in  school  by  chal 
lenging  the  best  of  their  callow  sprinters  and  outrun 
ning  them  hopelessly  on  track  and  in  the  hills.  That 
fixed  her  forever  in  the  town's  granny  soul ;  other  girls 
could  not  well  befriend  her;  she  was  "that  girl  from 
the  Pocket",  or  "Old  Michigan's  girl",  or  "Frenchy", 
and  had  the  doubtful  distinction  of  being  the  only 
Catholic  in  Rome,  Iowa,  except  Old  Mowry,  the  un 
dertaker.  In  the  Midlands  the  Pope  was  a  person  who 
might  upset  republican  institutions  any  time  or  other. 

So  she  had  grown  up  apart.  Never  was  she  so  happy 
as  when  fishing  with  Michigan  along  the  river, — Aure- 
lie  with  her  gipsy  liveliness;  the  old  rebel  stumping 
along,  baiting  her  hook,  protesting  at  her  excess  of 
spirits,  loquacious  and  reminiscent.  "Never  done 
growed  up,"  he  crowed  delightedly.  "Same  as  when  I 
stole  ye  out  of  the  convent  in  N'Awlyns  and  brought  ye 
up  to  occupy  the  land !" 

She  had  a  marvelous  aptitude  for  studies  she  liked 
and  an  unconquerable  aversion  to  all  else.  She  walked 
the  miles  to  school  from  the  quarry  shanties,  proud, 
ridiculously  proud,  coming  into  the  recitation  rooms, 
speaking  to  none  and  reciting  with  a  composure  and 


THE   DISCARD  51 

exactness  that  made  the  provincial  teachers  gasp. 
Then  she  went  along  the  leafy  road  to  the  woods  home 
ward  again,  proud  and  alone,  her  red  gown  a  splash  of 
color  against  the  staid  Midland  hills. 

Still,  to  track  rabbits  through  the  snows,  to  skate  with 
the  boys  on  lonely  treacherous  sloughs;  when  spring 
came,  to  tap  the  sugar  trees  on  the  bluffs  for 
stringy  syrup  and  gather  nuts  in  the  fall — when  one  is 
young  and  pretty  and  has  dreams  and  passions,  all  this 
does  not  atone ;  when  one  has  a  love  of  admiration  and 
a  feeling  that  one  is  lovable  and  should  be  finding  hap 
piness  in  the  good  days  of  youth,  it  is  hard  to  walk  the 
bleak  way  home  knowing  that  other  girls  are  going 
out  to  the  "Geek"  parties  and  to  the  dances  at  Odd 
Fellows'  Hall.  Those  gay  nights  she  studied  algebra 
in  the  stuffy  little  kitchen  where  Lindstrom's  dusty 
quarry  shirt  and  shoes  lay  before  the  red-hot  stove,  and 
his  snorings,  and  the  whine  of  the  baby,  and  the 
mother's  fretting  in  the  next  room,  came  above  the 
rasp  of  the  frozen  trees  on  the  eaves.  She  laid  down 
books  to  stare  out  on  the  icy  hills,  the  last  arc  on  the 
road  to  town  lighting  the  way  to  all  that  warmth,  all 
that  brightness,  all  that  laughter  from  which  she  was 
shut  off.  She  was  glad  when  summer  came  and  she 
could  climb  the  mighty  balustrades  of  the  bluff  and 
look  eastward  to  where  the  great  river  ran.  Out  of 
the  South  she  had  come ;  and  surely  beyond  the  walls 
of  this  laborer's  hut,  its  smell  of  sweaty  clothes,  and 
over  the  encircling  hills  one  could  find  life,  one  could 
find  one's  heart  beating  faster.  Yet  she  did  not  com 
plain  ;  her  proud  gaiety  was  her  shield. 

After  a  while,  as  the  sodden  meal  went  on,  the  Ten- 


52  THE   MIDLANDERS 

nessee  woman  spoke  what  they  all  knew  had  to  be 
broken  to  the  last  comer.  "Ye'r  pop  Lindstrom,  he 
says  there'll  be  no  more  school,  Aurelie.  He's  been  a 
God-fearin'  man,  and  hard-workin',  and  no  child  o' 
this  house'll  go  face  the  disgrace  o'  the  town,  he  says. 
Knute  and  Peter  and  you'll  not  go,  he  says." 

Aurelie  laid  down  her  fork  and  looked  at  John.  If 
the  hope  of  Heaven  had  been  dashed  from  her  she 
would  not  have  been  more  blank  with  fear.  "Why— I 
graduate  next  year !" 

"You'll  go  no  more."  John  glowered  at  her  breath- 
lessness.  "Damn  all  the  town.  Their  laws  and  schools, 
they're  not  for  poor  folk !  I  say,  damn  the  law,  and  I'm 
a  man  o'  God!" 

"But  I  ?  I  must  get  through  !  And  Knute  and  Peter, 
here—" 

She  looked  at  them  and  then  at  Michigan,  growing 
more  frightened.  The  old  soldier  shook  his  head  with 
some  hopeless  warning.  Then,  watching  Lindstrom  a 
moment,  she  sprang  up  quivering.  "I'll  go — I'll  go!" 
she  cried. 

"You'll  not,"  he  muttered  doggedly.  "You'll  die 
first." 

She  stared  at  him  again,  and  then  turned  flying  to 
her  tiny  room.  They  heard  the  crash  of  her  body  on 
her  white  little  bed,  painted  and  gilded  by  her  own 
hands.  The  others  went  on  docilely  with  their  eating. 

Knute,  out  in  the  dark,  feeding  the  cats  later,  felt 
Aurelie  seize  him  fiercely.  She  dragged  him  to  the  rail 
fence  and  shook  him  again. 

"Knute,  ain't  you  going  any  more  ?" 

"Thaf  s  what  paw  said."    The  boy  blubbered,  and 


THE    DISCARD  53 

her  hot  arm  went  about  him,  her  sleeve  brushed  his 
tears.  "I  gotta  stay  home  and  help  clear  land.  All 
winter,  paw  says.  .  .  .  And  I  was  a-goin'  to  get 
elected  to  the  Literary  Society  and  now  paw" — his 
voice  broke — "I  gotta  stay  home  and  cut  brush." 

"No!"  she  cried  out.  "No— no!" 

"Yes.  Paw  says  the  jedge,  he  done  it.  He  says  the 
law  made  us  all  bad.  Tain't  for  poor  folks.  It's  for 
rich.  Paw  says  damn  everybody !" 

"Don't  you  mind."  The  girl  beat  the  rail  with  her 
fists.  "We'll  run  away,  Knute !  I'm  going  to  do  some 
thing,  and  you  can  run  off  and  maybe  work  on  the  rail 
road — a  train  agent  or  something !  Or  go  be  a  soldier 
like  we  used  to  play !  Or  we'll  run  off  and  build  a  boat 
and  drift  down-river !" 

Whenever  Aurelie  rebelled  it  was  always  "down 
river"  with  her. 

"No,  paw,  he  said  God  was  with  him,  and  damn 
everybody !" 

She  stared  into  his  tear-stained  face.  "Knute,  I  just 
got  to  go  to  school.  I  got  to  be  a  lady!  And  have  heaps 
of  money!  And  do  lots  of  things  for  you  and  Peter! 
Oh,  Knute,  I  know  how !" 

He  watched  her  dark  and  tragic  face.  "Know  how  ? 
What  you  going  to  do,  Aurelie  ?"  He  faltered  his  hor 
ror.  Whatever  it  was,  Aurelie  wrould  do  it. 

"I" — she  breathed  tensely — "am  a-going  to  get 
married !" 

Knute  looked  fearfully  at  the  jade.  "Married!" 

"Yes,  sir!  To  a  rich  man,  sometime!  And  have 
everything!  But  first  I  got  to  go  to  school  and  be  a 
fady!" 


54  THE   MIDLANDERS 

"Oh,  Aurelie — "  Knute  gazed  wildly  away  at  the 
town  lights.  "Who  ?" 

Then  without  a  word,  she  pushed  him  aside  and  fled 
out  into  the  dark.  He  saw  a  trail  of  dust  arise  in  the 
quarry  road,  but  she  was  over  the  fence  and  among  the 
laurel  and  grape-vines.  She  ran,  as  the  deer  run,  from 
boulder  to  boulder  of  the  cliff  face,  and  when  she  came 
out  on  the  verge,  still  ran,  her  arm  against  her  beating 
heart,  but  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  dusk  below  her. 

The  tree-enshrouded  town  lay  there:  a  few  lights 
twinkling  drowsily,  the  clock  in  the  court-house  an 
opaque  blur,  and  a  single  church  spire  visible  in  the 
shadowy  masses.  A  farmer's  wagon  rattled  up  a  cut 
of  hill  road  homeward,  a  dog  barked  sleepily,  and  a 
cow-bell  tinkled  somewhere  on  the  content  of  the 
rich  land.  But  the  girl  raised  her  hands  above 
the  sumac  fringe  from  which  the  gossamer  floated  to 
her  face ;  she  held  them  off  as  if  appealing  from  the 
fat  and  sober  deadness  of  this  life  to  the  world  be 
yond.  There  was  the  river  winding  south  under  the 
first  light  of  the  September  moon.  There  was  the 
East.  She  edged  forward  in  the  red  sumac  until  her 
feet  were  on  the  last  bit  of  the  cliff,  where  one  stood 
with  infinity  beneath,  the  shadows  so  real,  the  wooded 
valley  so  much  a  phantom. 

"Now,  I'll  go,"  she  whispered;  "now  he'll  have  to 
take  me !" 

And  staring  eastward,  her  heart  ceasing  to  throb 
with  the  rapture  of  her  flight,  a  little  sigh  came  to  her 
lips.  Listening  she  heard  a  twig  snap,  a  step  below  on 
the  cliff  trail.  She  crouched  Indian-like  in  the  brush, 
and  then,  when  some  one  uprose  in  the  path,  she  flung 


I   can't  keep   on   meeting  you   every   night   alone,   here — 


THE   DISCARD  55 

herself  upon  him,  clasping  him,  laughing,  crying,  kiss 
ing  him. 

"Oh,  boy !"  she  cried,  "I'm  going  with  you — to  East 
and  college — anywhere!"  She  reached  a  hand  out  to 
the  purple  gulf  beyond  the  hill— "There !  I  can't  keep 
on  meeting  you  every  night  alone,  here — and  be  good. 
It  isn't  in  me — I  can't — I  can't!" 

She  fought  to  hold  him  closer,  crying  her  passion, 
caressing  him  with  little  love-words  of  her  vagabond 
childhood,  in  French  and  Spanish ;  and  ever  coming 
back  to  her  kisses  and  the  rapture  of  his  embrace. 
"You  can't  leave  me — oh,  Harlan — you  can't  ever 
again !" 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN  THE  WAY  OF  LOVERS 

TDRESENTLY  they  went  along  the  backward  path, 
L  on  one  side  the  stubble  and  oak  groves  silvered  by 
the  moon,  and  on  the  other  the  abysmal  valley  beyond 
the  sumacs  on  the  cliff's  edge.  His  arm  was  about  her, 
and  at  times  she  stopped  him  to  look  up  into  his  grave 
face,  to  brush  back  the  curls  from  his  temples  and  tell 
her  story.  She  moved  him  with  this  trust;  all  their 
secret  nights  together  this  amazing  summer  she  had 
been  a  thing  of  wild  woods'  lightness,  grace  and  gaiety, 
a  defying  little  Cinderella,  proud  of  her  beauty,  ec 
centric  in  her  dress  and  posing.  He  had  not  stopped 
to  think  where  it  would  all  end.  His  cool  blood  of  the 
East  had  never  reckoned  on  such  passion  as  had,  sum 
mer  long,  flamed  in  her;  he  could  not  guess  that  she 
was  thanking  God  for  his  strength  which  held  her 
purely,  even  while  the  call  of  youth  to  youth  was  in  her 
eyes.  Summer  night  and  young  night  have  no  morality, 
and  either  lust  or  virtue  is  an  easy  thing,  costing  noth 
ing  of  the  price  the  years  bring. 

"I  wondered,"  she  whispered,  "if  you'd  come  to 
night!  After  the  trial  and  your  father  sent  Papa  John 
to  jail.  I  hate  him!  I  wanted  to  hate  you!"  She  shiv 
ered  in  the  moonlight;  then  kissed  him.  "I'll  never 
come  again  and  meet  you  here — oh,  boy,  I  won't  go 

56 


IN   THE   WAY   OF   LOVERS  57 

on  loving  you !"  She  stood  with  closed  eyes,  the  black 
hair  falling  straight  from  its  parting  down  over  her 
ears  giving  her  face  the  fixity  of  a  penitent.  But  in 
her  hair  she  had  put,  as  always,  a  flower.  He  drew 
her  to  him  and  kissed  the  blossom,  and  she  struggled 
murmuring:  "It's  not  right — you  know  how  weak  I 
am  .  .  .  and  then,  to-morrow — next  day — you'll  go 
leave  me!" 

"Wild  bird,"  he  whispered,  with  his  grave  smile. 
"While  it's  to-night,  let's  not  think  of  that !"  And  at 
her  quick  surrender  in  his  arms,  the  curious  remorse 
ful  rapture  that  had  stung  him  all  this  summer  of  his 
vacation,  meeting  her  here  alone,  came  to  him.  By 
days  he  thought  of  it  with  cool  reassertion  of  his 
blood  and  tradition — he  really  could  not  love  her,  he 
reasoned ;  yet  by  night  he  met  her  there  and,  laughing, 
gave  up  to  it  and  to  her.  He  tried  to  tell  himself  that 
it  was  all  a  summer  trysting,  that  she  would  forget 
with  the  cooling  days  and  he  away.  But  she  had 
seemed  stupefied  by  this  miracle  of  loving  him,  the 
completeness  of  yielding.  Her  days  she  went  about  in 
a  dream,  lying  blithely  for  his  sake,  protecting  his 
name,  living  only  for  the  hour  she  could  steal  to  the 
hills  and  await  him. 

"It's  monstrous,"  she  cried,  "putting  him  in  jail! 
What  did  the  lawyers  say  we'd  win  for?  It's  bad 
enough  to  be  crippled,  but  to  lose  and  be  imprisoned. 
It's  just  devilish — your  father  and  everything!" 

He  muttered  some  patient  phrase  of  his  culture  and 
understanding. 

"Dear  heart,  it's  rough.  But  you  wouldn't  under 
stand.  His  own  negligence  was  part  of  the  accident — 


58  THE   MIDLANDERS 

that's  how  the  law  holds  it.  And  the  law,  my  dear — 
the  judge  interprets  that  as  he  finds  it." 

"What  did  Lafe  Mason  say  we'd  win  for?" 

He  smiled  at  the  outrage  in  her  tone.  "It's  a  way 
they  have.  Maybe  Mason  thought  he  could  win." 

"Nobody  could  win  against  Tanner  in  court !" 

"Aurelie?"  He  shook  her  sternly.  If  she  had 
damned  his  paternity  it  would  not  have  hurt  more. 
"My  father  is  the  judge,  you  must  remember." 

"And  he  sent  Papa  John  to  jail — for  nothing.  For 
swearing?  Why,  I  can  swear,  too!" 

He  smiled  his  patience.  "Lindstrom  committed  the 
worst  of  contempt." 

"Contempt,  Who  cares  for  that?  Suppose  you  had 
lost — suppose  the  case  meant  everything  to  you  ?  Your 
family  at  home,  waiting — hungry,  Harlan?  Really 
hungry,  and  you  saw  you  were  crippled  and  cheated 
and  done  for?  There's  times  when  Knute  and  I  have 
gone  to  school  with  no  breakfast,  and  for  lunch  we 
dug  wet  butternuts  from  under  the  leaves.  And  I'd 
go  to  school  with  a  flower  in  my  hair  and  laugh  and 
nobody'd  know!  Just  proud — I  wouldn't  even  tell 
you !" 

"Aurelie — not  hungry?"  There  was  horror  in  his 
tone.  Not  to  have  enough  to  eat — to  his  class  and 
breeding — was  disreputable. 

She  smiled  up  through  her  tears.  "Mon  Dieu,  yes — 
but  what  of  that  ?  Many  times  we've  been  hungry !" 

He  was  more  shocked  than  she  could  guess.  Hunger 
was  a  luxurious  state  of  mind  incident  to  picnics  and 
athletics.  One  never  really  met  people  hungry  from 
having  nothing  to  eat.  And  to  dig  nuts  and  eat  them 


IN    THE   WAY   OF   LOVERS  59 

and  then  come  into  town,  proud — oh,  so  very  proud — 
with  a  flower  in  one's  hair,  marching  into  the  recita 
tion  room  at  high  school  without  deigning  to  speak  to 
any  one !  He  thought  back  to  the  time  he  was  a  se 
nior,  and  Aurelie  had  been — a  gipsy  child  with  short 
dresses  and  long  legs — he  wondered  what  an  amazing 
change  had  come  to  her  in  the  four  years.  He  had 
forgotten  her  until  this  lazy  summer  when,  fishing 
along  Sinsinawa,  he  had  come  upon  her  gravely  watch 
ing  his  threshing  of  a  pool  for  bass,  and  she  had  mock 
ingly  derided  him.  She  met  him  again  hunting,  and 
showed  him  an  otter's  den  in  a  wild  morass  of  the 
bottoms,  when  none  would  have  believed  there  was  an 
otter  in  the  state.  After  that — well,  he  met  her  day 
by  day,  and  then  by  night — a  unique  creature,  he 
said  at  first,  laughably  untamed.  And  he  amused  him 
self  by  taming  her  and  ended  by  loving  her.  To  be 
French  and  Catholic,  to  come  "up-river"  out  of  a 
corner  of  the  South,  foreign  and  unknown — to  know 
the  outdoors  as  the  wild  alone  know  it — this  was  the 
summer  madness  that  seduced  him. 

"Hungry?  Why  the  first  winter  here,  when  Michi 
gan's  house-boat  stranded  in  the  Pocket  and  the  old 
Indian  woman  who  raised  me,  died  of  pneumonia,  we 
were  always  hungry — we  trapped  any  sort  of  animal 
to  live.  And  when  the  Lindstroms  came  and  lived 
with  us,  it  wasn't  much  better — sometimes.  Then  they 
started  me  to  school — and  I  couldn't  read  or  write 
when  I  was  twelve !  Ain't  I  done  well,  Harlan  ?" 

"Adorably.    But—"  he  sighed. 

"I  know.  You  want  me  to  go  on  and  graduate — and 
be  a  regular  lady !  Just  to  show  everybody !  Oh,  and 


60  THE   MIDLANDERS 

I  will,  dear!  I  promised  myself  I  would — just  for 
you!  Everything's  just  for  you!" 

He  was  laughing,  again  with  that  curious  hurt  in 
his  heart.  And  as  he  held  her,  murmuring  his  fond 
ness,  he  winced  at  the  remembrance  of  the  days  to 
come.  His  mother's  stateliness,  the  Van  Hart  tradi 
tion — Harvard,  his  law  career — vague  and  of  the  well- 
ordered  future,  but  he  knew  that  on  him  was  the  obli 
gation  of  his  parents'  devotion,  the  singleness  of  their 
pride  of  class  and  environ.  Aurelie — what  was  all 
this  to  her,  and  what  could  she  be  to  it? 

"And  now  you'll  go  East,"  she  went  on.  "And  if  I 
can't  go  to  school  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do.  Oh, 
Harlan,  life's  so  snarly — one  can  laugh  and  be  proud, 
but  it  hurts!  And  to  have  Papa  John  in  jail — he's 
rough  with  me,  but  that  hurts,  too !" 

He  was  still,  and  at  length  something  like  a  sigh 
came.  "I  wish  you  could  know  my  father,  Aurelie. 
Why,  he'd  be  the  first  man  to  help  Lindstrom  if  he 
could — and  Uncle  Michigan,  and  Knute  and  Peter  and 
all  of  you !  He's  the  gentlest,  most  tender-hearted  man 
I  know.  But  you  see  John  damned  the  court — that 
damned  everything  father  stands  for — and  his  father 
before  him — and  behind  that  hundreds  of  years  of — 
of" — he  paused,  wondering  if  she  could  realize  what 
he  meant — "well,  of  our  family !" 

"We  don't  want  charity,"  she  cried,  "we  wanted 
justice !"  And  then  at  the  hurt  in  his  eyes  she  went  on 
with  quiet  passion:  "All  this  summer  I'd  been  so 
happy!  Just  waiting  here,  unknown  and  alone  for 
you.  Oh,  it  was  wonderful  to  have  you  come  to  love 
me !"  She  held  out  her  hands  triumphantly.  "Of  all 


IN    THE   WAY   OF   LOVERS  61 

the  girls  you  knew — High  Street  girls — you  came  up 
here  to  me — alone." 

"Aurelie,"  he  muttered,  "that's  one  thing  I'm  sorry 
for." 

She  looked  up  quickly,  and  he  went  on  slowly. 
"Mother  wouldn't  like  it." 

She  tried  dimly  to  grasp  this  reverence.  What  it 
meant  of  upbringing  was  beyond  her  in  her  meager 
and  unadvised  idea  of  honor.  She  had  a  sense  of  some 
strength  back  of  him  that  had  made  his  character, 
that  had  made  the  great  land.  Vaguely  she  felt  it 
meant  a  home,  a  large  house  with  wide  lawns  about  it, 
like  the  Van  Harts' ;  good  living,  a  surrey  or  motor  at 
the  door;  and  the  easy  and  welcome  flitting  of  fair 
girls  in  cool  white  such  as  she  had  seen — a  beautiful 
way  of  life  linking  all  clean  and  clever  people  together 
everywhere  but  never  extending  to  a  quarryman's 
shack.  It  was  this  blind  groping  to  understand  his 
world  that  made  her  humble  with  him,  and  so  proud 
without  him,  to  brave  the  ignorance  she  knew  was 
hers.  The  conscience  of  her  lover  was  quite  beyond 
her.  For  with  him,  though  youth  might  be  high,  and 
blood  hot — and  there  was  adventure  in  the  September 
nights — yet  always  he  would  think  back  to  the  obliga 
tion  of  his  birth  and  breeding. 

And  she  ?  Well,  such  a  little  thing  it  takes  to  make 
or  defeat  one — such  a  little  thing!  The  sort  of  girl 
one  meets  unknown  to  all  in  the  moonlight. 

Aurelie  was  shot  through  with  her  old  jealousy  of 
this  mother,  this  college  in  the  East,  and  all  the  bril 
liant  world  that  claimed  him.  "Your  mother  wouldn't 
like  it?  Or  me!  I  hate"— then  she  bit  her  lip— "Oh, 


62  THE   MIDLANDERS 

I'll  not  spoil  it,  Harlan — our  last  night  together !  And 
it's  only  another  year  as  you  say.  You'll  be  free  and 
can  work — "  She  stopped  again,  suddenly  fearing. 
What  would  that  freedom  mean  ?  He  had  never  asked 
her  to  marry  him.  They  had  lived  an  idyl  of  the  hills, 
the  moon  shimmering  over  the  purple  valley,  the  river 
winding  to  the  sea ;  all  the  glory  of  the  summer  nights 
they  had  felt,  but  never  had  they  taken  thought  be 
yond  it. 

He  went  on  gently,  but  troubled  by  the  tenseness  of 
her  face :  "Only  a  year.  And  the  East  isn't  far,  dear. 
Only  two  days'  travel  or  so!" 

The  East  was  an  unknown  splendor  to  her.  It 
looked  too  critically,  with  the  cool  measuring  of  his 
mother,  the  same  reserve  she  had  seen  at  times  in  his 
own  eyes.  And  she — she  was  ready  to  give  all,  to 
pour  out  her  life  at  his  feet.  She  took  his  arm  and 
put  it  about  her  and  looked  down  at  the  front  of  her 
simple  little  gown.  "I  don't  know  what  I'll  do.  I 
was  only  going  to  school  because  of  you,  Harlan.  I 
hate  it !  Only  for  you  .  .  .  and  now  Papa  Lind- 
strom  won't  have  that.  And  he's  hurt,  and  his  wife's 
no  good — just  worn  out,  and  the  boys  are  too  little  to 
help.  Sometimes  I  think  I  ought  to  work — perhaps 
clerk  at  Dickinson's  grocery." 

He  smiled  at  the  idea  of  Aurelie,  the  wild  hawk, 
clerking!  She  would  not  stand  it  a  day.  Then  he 
winced.  He  thought  of  Elise,  the  grocer's  daughter, 
and  her  amiable  patronizing  of  the  town  girls  who 
worked  there;  of  his  mother  giving  her  orders  of  a 
morning  from  the  surrey  to  some  young  woman  who 
brought  out  a  scoopful  of  sugar  for  inspection  and 


IN   THE   WAY   OF   LOVERS  63 

apologized  for  a  delay.  Aurelie — she  would  throw  it 
into  the  customer's  face  if  she  fancied  a  slight ! 

She  read  his  thoughts.  "You  think  I  couldn't,  don't 
you?  Oh,  boy,  I  could — for  you!  You  hold  me  from 
being  rebellious  and  ridiculous.  I  could  just  do  any 
thing  for  you — run  away  with  you,  or  go  to  work — 
just  anything!" 

He  felt  her  trembling  in  his  arms.  "Sometimes, 
Aurelie,  I  think  we  ought  to  go  down  to  the  house  and 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  Tell  them  everything — 
that  I  love  you,  dear !" 

Her  voice  choked  with  gratefulness — dimly  she 
could  feel  what  a  sacrifice  he  was  making.  But  now  the 
prospect  frightened  her.  "Oh,  no — not  yet.  Your 
father — he'd  hate  me,  now !" 

"Hate  you?  Why,  Aurelie,  he'd  help  you!  Maybe 
he'd  get  a  place  for  you  at  the  bank — keeping  books 
or  something.  But  you  can't  keep  books.  You're  all 
lightness  and  temper  and  lovableness — you'd  have  to 
have  the  outdoors,  or  you'd  not  live.  But  if  you  did 
have  a  place  that  would  pave  the  way  for  you" — he 
hesitated,  wondering  how  to  say  it  and  not  hurt  her 
absurd  pride — "raise  you,  so  that  some  day  people 
would  sort  of  forget!" 

"Forget?" 

"Where  you  came  from,  dear.  Down  the  river  with 
Old  Michigan — and  that  you  haven't  even  a  name  ex 
cept  a  borrowed  one  from  Lindstrom."  He  laughed  to 
smooth  it  over — "Oh,  but  it's  funny!  You're  a  wild 
hawk,  Aurelie.  I  remember  when  you  used  to  come 
into  town  with  Knute  to  sell  rabbits,  and  the  coldest 
winter  day  you  always  had  a  bit  of  bright  leaf  stuck 


64  THE   MIDLANDERS 

somewhere  about  you — like  an  Indian  girl !  I  thought 
you  were  at  first.  Then  I  forgot  all  about  you  and 
went  away  to  college,  and  when  I  next  heard  you  were 
in  high  school ;  and  then  this  year  I  met  you  in  the 
hills,  here." 

"And  made  me  love  you,  Harlan.  Oh,  it  wasn't 
right — it  wasn't  right !" 

Then,  in  the  way  of  all  men  and  all  lovers,  he  laugh 
ingly  kissed  and  comforted  her.  They  went  down  a 
moon-filled  glen  and  up  a  slope,  and  there  the  silent 
town  lay,  the  court-house  tower  white  as  silver  above 
the  robing  trees.  Sinsinawa  was  tinkling  down  from 
the  highlands  at  their  feet,  and  across  it  a  trail  lay  to 
the  first  street  at  the  foot  of  the  bluff.  In  a  window  of 
a  cottage  tucked  at  the  foot  of  the  rock,  they  saw  the 
blur  of  a  lamp,  and  he  knew  it  was  Wiley  Curran  idling 
over  his  editorials,  for  the  graceless  renegade  of  Rome 
had  a  way  of  turning  night  into  day  and  writing  or 
wasting  hours  when  decent  folk  were  all  abed. 

And  when  it  seemed  that  he  was  about  to  leave  her 
at  this  accustomed  parting  place,  she  clung  to  him  sud 
denly  whispering:  "Take  me  with  you — oh,  take  me 
with  you !  I  can't  let  you  go — oh,  I  can't !" 

She  held  so  tightly  to  him  that  he  could  not  go  if 
he  had  tried,  and  after  long  vain  comforting,  murmur 
ing  to  her  all  he  had  said  a  hundred  times,  he  slowly 
unfolded  her  arms  and  looked  down  at  her  intently. 
A  sense  of  her  great  loneliness  without  him,  without 
her  school,  without  the  bit  of  aspiration  and  of  vague 
hope  she  had  come  to  find,  touched  him  as  it  had  never 
done  before. 

"Aurelie,"  he  muttered,  "I  can't  do  that— you  know 


IN   THE   WAY   OF   LOVERS  65 

I  can't.  I  must  finish  school  and  buck  into  work.  Be 
fore  I — I — marry  you — "  he  blurted  tenderly.  "But 
you  ought  to  have  a  place — something  to  do  and — be 
while  we're  waiting,  dear !  And  I'm  going  to  take  you 
to  mother  and  tell  her  all !" 

She  looked  up  frightened  at  his  stubborn  face.  "No 
— no — wait !" 

"First  I'll  tell  Wiley  Curran.  You  know  that  editor  ? 
He's  my  best  friend  here — the  only  one  I  care  about 
particularly  in  town.  And  I  trust  him  in  things  of 
this  sort — he  could  look  at  it  right  and  honestly,  with 
out  any  foolishness  about  my  family  and  that  kind  of 
thing.  Dear,  we'll  go  tell  Wiley,  and  if  he  says  to  tell 
mother  and  father,  we'll  do  it — and  have  the  whole 
matter  out!"  He  cried  out  joyously,  brave  with  the 
hazard  of  it.  He  felt  suddenly  a  man  going  out  to 
a  man's  world  and  work,  knowing  that  he  left  her  with 
the  honor  of  his  faith ;  and  this  brave  knowledge  was 
worth  all  the  miserable  travesties  of  "good  form",  the 
smug  and  easy  conventions  of  his  "set".  These  were 
well  enough  for  old  women  to  fiddle  over,  but  they 
were  not  for  youth,  nor  love,  nor  the  glory  of  this  first 
protecting  manhood  and  its  surety  of  the  years  to  come, 
that  future  which  would  achieve  all,  ennoble  all,  re 
deem  all. 

He  saw  suddenly  her  own  fine  achievement.  She, 
who  gave  her  whole  life  to  him,  as  one  would  place  a 
rose  in  his  hand.  She  would  sit  small,  pensive,  alone, 
waiting  for  him  in  the  hills,  or  in  the  squalid  quarry 
house ;  she  would  wear  old  and  faded  gowns  when  she 
loved  brightness  and  pleasant  things;  about  her  the 
corn  fields  would  crown  the  hills  green,  and  turn  to 


66  THE   MIDLANDERS 

bronze  shields  before  the  winter;  and  spring  bring 
again  its  black  damp  to  the  woods — and  always  she 
would  wait,  if  he  asked  her — wait,  wait,  wait !  Always 
he  felt  this  steadfastness  above  her  impulses  and  re 
bellions.  With  him  she  might  find  her  real  self,  rise 
to  any  station,  become  anything,  so  great  he  felt  her 
love  to  be. 

"Aurelie,  we're  not  afraid!  Why,  dear — we  ought 
to  have  done  it  long  ago!  Why,  mother — after  all, 
she's  the  best  mother  in  the  world  !  Why,  a  word  from 
her  would  make  everything  different  for  you,  Aurelie — • 
just  to  have  it  known  she  was  your  friend."  He  was 
taking  her  on  exultantly,  now,  by  the  trail  down 
through  the  laurel  and  boulders  which  led  to  the  end 
of  the  street  back  of  Curran's  house.  She  was  fright 
ened  ;  she  had  never  seen  him  so  ardent,  so  rebellious. 

'To-night  ?"  she  cried — "oh,  Harlan — my  dress !" 

"It's  a  dear  little  dress!" 

Her  hand  went  to  the  flower  in  her  hair;  she  was 
dumb  before  his  resolution. 

"Don't  touch  it!  It's  a  bit  of  flame — just  like  you." 
He  laughed.  This  was  so  easy !  This  was  what  they 
should  have  done  long  ago !  All  his  life  had  been  with 
out  secrecy  or  reproach ;  and  now,  to  take  his  sweet 
heart  by  the  hand  and  go  down  buoyantly  to  the  town 
to  face  them  all !  How  easy  it  was  under  the  witchery 
of  the  September  moon ! 

They  were  both  laughing,  nervously  yet  with  happi 
ness,  when  he  lifted  her  down  the  last  rock  among  the 
night-damp  leaves  and  burst  through  the  grape  tangle 
to  the  street,  crossing  Sinsinawa,  looking  down  in  the 
pools  at  their  reflections.  They  were  coming  to  the 


IN   THE    WAY   OF    LOVERS  67 

first  houses,  the  lamp  in  the  window,  and  somewhere 
the  murmur  of  voices  from  neighbors  visiting-  on  the 
lawns — his  people,  kind  true  people.  They  should  be 
her  people  now.  This  was  the  beautiful  answer  he 
would  make  to  conventions  and  curious  eyes  and 
tongues — to  take  her  by  the  hand  and  lead  her  among 
them.  Love  was  enough ;  love  was  all — and  they 
should  see ! 

They  came  about  the  corner  of  the  old  News  build 
ing.  On  the  platform  walk  a  man  stood  who  was  star 
ing  off  so  strangely  above  the  sugar  trees  of  the  Square 
that  Harlan  did  not,  at  first,  recognize  Wiley  Curran 
himself.  Under  one  arm  he  had  the  exchanges  from 
the  night's  mail ;  at  his  feet,  in  the  moonlight,  lay  an 
envelope,  and  in  his  hand  was  the  key-ring  with  which 
he  always  opened  his  letters. 

Harlan  drew  his  sweetheart  on.  But  not  until  they 
were  directly  before  Curran  did  the  latter  appear  to 
notice  them.  Then  he  stared  down  at  the  opened  letter 
in  his  hand  and  muttered :  "The  girl's  got  it — wait  till 
the  old  town  hears  that !" 

"Wiley  ?" 

"Hello,  Harlan,"  responded  Wiley  absently.  Then 
his  blank  eye  fell  upon  Aurelie.  He  started.  "Why, 
how  did  you  know  ?" 

She  looked  puzzledly  at  him.  "By  George!"  the 
editor  roared:  "did  you  hear  from  'em?"  Then  he 
seized  her  hand  frantically  and  shook  it.  "Miss  Lind- 
strom — it's  the  greatest  thing  that  ever  hit  the  old 
town !" 

She  had  no  idea  what  he  meant.  Harlan  interposed. 
"What's  the  matter,  Wiley  ?" 


68  THE    MIDLANDERS 

"Don't  you  know  ?  Then  what  the  mischief  are  you 
bringing  her  here  for?"  The  editor  shook  the  letter 
before  them.  "This?" 

"Aurelie?  Why  we  don't  know  anything  you're 
talking  about  ?  What  ?" 

"Aurelie,"  went  on  the  editor,  "you've  won  the 
beauty  contest !" 

She  continued  to  stare  at  him.  "You  got  it !"  cried 
Curran.  "The  Sunday  editor  of  the  Chicago  Chronicle 
wrote  me  this — he  wants  a  column  of  dope  about  you. 
They'll  print  your  picture — the  prize  winner !" 

"Prize  winner!"  Harlan  shouted.  "You're  crazy! 
How  did  the  Chronicle  get  her  picture?" 

"I  sent  it  to  'em.  Last  spring  when  the  Chicago 
paper  started  this  beauty  contest,  Vawter,  the  photog 
rapher,  and  I  were  looking  over  that  bunch  of  high- 
school  pictures — the  junior  bunch.  And  we  sent  three 
of  'em — just  for  ducks  we  entered  three  of  'em!  The 
Mills  girl  and  Elise  Dickinson — and  Aurelie's.  And 
Aurelie's  won  it!" 

Harlan  stood  paling  before  him.  "Elise — and 
Aurelie!  The  picture?  What  picture?  I  never  saw 
any  picture !" 

"It  was  a  peach.  Sort  of  Spanish,  with  lilacs  in  her 
hair!  Vawter  caught  something  in  it  that  was  inde 
scribable."  He  stared  again  at  Aurelie,  hungrily,  fas 
cinated,  as  if  seeking  the  thing  that  men  would  call 
beautiful  in  her.  "Why,  girl,  I  never  looked  at  you 
before — never  thought  you  were  so — so — good-look- 
ing!" 

Harlan  tore  the  letter  from  his  hand  and  was  read 
ing  it. 


IN   THE   WAY   OF   LOVERS  69 

The  editor  looked  at  the  girl's  mute  and  puzzled 
face.  "The  most  beautiful  girl  in  the  West — that's 
the  way  they'll  spring  it!  The  syndicate — thirty  of 
the  biggest  papers  in  the  United  States — will  publish 
that  picture,  and  twenty  million  people  will  see  it!" 
He  danced  up  and  down.  "Aurelie,  you  little  madcap, 
you'll  be  the  most  famous  woman  in  the  country !" 

Still  she  looked  at  her  lover  expectantly,  uncompre 
hending. 

Harlan  seemed  gasping  for  breath.  Then  he  crushed 
the  letter  and  slammed  it  at  the  editor's  feet.  "Aurelie 
— her  picture !  You  big  damned  fool,  Wiley  !  Her  pic 
ture  !" 

And  seizing  Aurelie  by  the  hand,  he  whirled  about 
and  dragged  her  after  him  from  the  sidewalk.  The 
editor  continued  to  watch  them  until  they  were  lost 
in  the  sugar-tree  shade  of  High  Street,  still  like  one 
bereft  of  his  senses.  Even  the  startling  idea  of  the 
judge's  son  and  Old  Michigan's  girl  coming  from  a 
tryst  down  Eagle  Point  trail  to  town  together  could 
not  awaken  him.  After  a  while  he  muttered:  "The 
most  beautiful  woman  in  America — maybe  the  whole 
world!  Biggest  thing  ever  hit  the  old  town  since  Jay 
Smith  killed  himself  up  above  the  First  National  Bank ! 
Aurelie,  the  beauty-prize  winner !" 


CHAPTER  V 

HER  GLIMPSE  OF  LIFE 

SHE  went  with  her  lover  obediently, — penitent,  curi 
ously  so,  and  as  Harlan  looked  down  at  her 
smoothing  her  simple  gown,  going  with  him  along  the 
moonlit  street  to  any  adventure,  to  any  end  he  wished, 
his  heart  smote  him  for  his  roughness.  He  had  not 
spoken  to  her  for  some  time,  and  the  matter  frightened 
her — it  was  something  terrible  from  which  he  was  try 
ing  to  shield  her ;  but  he  was  angry,  very  angry,  merely 
because  she  was  pretty !  Mon  Dieu,  was  that  it  ? 

"I  never  gave  any  one  my  picture !"  she  burst  out,  at 
length.  "I  never  knew  anything  about  it !" 

"I  know,"  he  muttered.  "That's  the  hateful  thing 
about  Wiley !  He  ought  to  know  better." 

"Eh,  I  must  be  very  good-looking!"  she  glanced  up 
at  him  with  her  quick  gaiety.  "When  they  want  my 
picture,  and  to  print  things  about  me.  And  give  me  a 
prize,  Harlan!" 

"Aurelie,"  he  muttered  sternly.  "This  is  simply  hor 
rible  !  To  be  advertised — to  be  exploited — to  have  all 
sorts  of  slush  written  about  you  in  the  Sunday 
papers !" 

She  was  puzzled,  trying  to  understand  his  view 
point.  It  seemed  that  the  brilliant  world  had  beckoned 

70 


HER    GLIMPSE   OF   LIFE  71 

to  her,  found  her  in  her  dolorous  corner,  her  defeated 
and  stormy  little  life — and  he  who  loved  her  best  was 
angry  at  it  all ! 

"Oh,  little  girl !"  he  whispered,  "just  an  hour  ago  I 
thought  I  was  going  to  claim  you— have  you  all  my 
own,  and  defy  the  whole  world  for  you!  Just  mine, 
Aurelie — and  what  we  would  do  would  be  big  and 
brave.  If  mother  wouldn't  have  it,  I'd  run  away  with 
you !  I'd  go  to  work  at  anything,  give  up  my  law  and 
chance  with  the  firm — everything — for  you !" 

"Yes!  And  I  felt  like  dancing,  perfectly  happy! 
And  proud — oh,  so  proud  of  you!  But  what's  the 
matter?  I'll  be  famous,  the  editor  said — and  maybe 
rich — and  go  to  Chicago  .  .  .  and  have  pieces  in 
the  paper !  Oh,  boy,  is  that  so  terrible  ?  Just  because 
I'm  pretty !"  She  looked  at  him  with  mingled  humil 
ity  and  rebellion.  "You  ought  to  be  glad !" 

His  grave  eyes  were  ruthless  with  some  new  com 
mand.  He  took  her  shoulders  and  held  her  so  that  she 
could  not  evade  him.  She  stared  up  at  him,  then  re 
laxed  from  her  tenseness,  laughing.  "Oh,  well,  then, 
Harlan,  I  just  kept  on  in  school  this  year  to  please  you 
— I  only  try  anything  because  you  want  me  to.  And 
now  you'd  think  I'd  committed  some  crime — and  I've 
done  nothing  except  be  pretty !  Ah,  Name  of  God ! 
Sometimes  I  wish  I  was  a  Cajun  girl  again,  back  on 
Bayou  Perot,  where  we  lived  in  a  grass  house  one  time. 
I  can  remember!  I  wish  we'd  never  come  up  here 
among  these  cold  Yankees!"  She  clasped  him  pas 
sionately.  "But  then  I  love  one.  You  don't  know 
what  that  means,  dear,  to  me!  Down  in  the  bayou 
country  we're  women  at  sixteen — we  marry  because 


72  THE    MIDLANDERS 

we  love — oh,  just  as  I  love  you — without  thinking,  or 
reason,  or  virtue !" 

"I  know,"  he  whispered.    "You've  told  me  all." 

"I  saw  a  man  killed  once,  down-river.  A  woman 
stabbed  him  and  he  fell  on  the  deck  right  where  I  was 
playing.  I  don't  know  why,  eh?"  She  looked  at  him 
with  her  alert  challenge — "But  I  can  guess !  She 
loved  him!  Why,  even  when  I  was  a  child  I  didn't 
blame  her.  Harlan,  I  suppose  I'm  a  savage  now,  ain't 
I — going  to  school  with  all  those  nice  girls  in  white 
dresses !" 

"Aurelie,"  he  answered  slowly,  "I'm  going  away  to 
morrow  to  school.  And  I  was  going  to  take  you  to 
mother,  to-night.  Tell  her  everything — ask  her  to 
protect  you,  help  you — make  of  you  the  sort  of  woman 
you  can  be  if  you  had  a  chance.  I  thought  you'd  be 
waiting  for  me — and  trying,  always !" 

Her  eyes  were  quick  with  tears.  Beneath  her  laugh 
ter  they  were  never  far  away. 

"I  wanted  you  to  know  my  mother,"  he  went  on  pa 
tiently.  "But  I  wanted  you  to  be  yourself  always,  too. 
Good  and  fine — the  best  in  your  gay  little  self,  because 
it's  all  there!  And  now  this  ghastly  thing  of  Wiley's 
— the  furor  and  publicity  of  it.  Why,  my  mother — she 
couldn't  stand  it !" 

She  watched  him  long;  her  fingers  plucked  slowly 
at  a  tattered  leaf  upon  his  shoulder.  "Well,  then," 
she  muttered  humbly,  "I  won't.  I'll  give  it  all  up — 
the  prize  and  everything — if  you  ask  me  to." 

"It's  too  late  for  that." 

"No,  it  isn't.  I  won't  have  a  thing  to  do  with  'em ! 
My  picture  in  the  paper — or  anything !" 


HER    GLIMPSE    OF   LIFE  73 

He  smiled  at  her  simplicity.  "Oh,  Aurelie,  I  wish 
they'd  never  have  discovered  you!" 

From  the  path  they  were  descending  she  watched  a 
distant  patch  of  water  touched  by  a  mist  of  light.  Be 
yond  it  was  the  East,  the  radiant  land ;  over  the  silent 
hills  of  the  river  was  some  unknown  glory  beckoning 
her.  She  sighed  and  put  by  the  undreamed  allure 
ment  ;  it  seemed  that  since  she  had  known  Harlan  she 
was  always  putting  something  by,  renouncing,  strug 
gling;  trying  to  do  or  be  something  quite  unattained. 
That  was  love,  she  answered — to  renounce  and  not  be 
embittered,  to  try  for  something  better  than  one  had, 
to  be  better  than  one  truly  was.  That  was  it.  Love 
meant  trying ! 

"Nobody  will  have  me,"  she  went  on  slowly.  "I 
won't  pay  any  attention  to  'em.  I  love  you  that  way, 
Harlan.  Just  to  wish  my  face  was  ugly  if  it  pleased 
you.  To  scratch  my  cheeks  and  eyes,  if  you  wanted  me 
to!  Just  to  live  on  here  and  be  the  bootlegger's  girl 
from  the  bottoms,  and  never  have  a  pretty  dress.  I 
will,  if  you  want  me  to." 

He  did  not  answer  for  a  time.  She  could  not  tell 
that  he  was  conquering  the  lump  in  his  throat  at  the 
pathos  of  her  passion.  "For  me!"  he  whispered,  and 
she  nodded ;  and  so  they  went  on  through  the  moon 
light  to  his  home. 

They  crossed  the  wide  lawn  where  Palf,  the  great 
friendly  Saint  Bernard,  came  to  greet  them.  Some  one 
was  singing  in  the  parlors.  It  was  Elise  Dickinson, 
and  a  Schumann  song ;  and  Harlan  slowly  remembered 
that  this  was  their  last  night  at  home  before  he  went 
to  Harvard  and  Elise  to  Bryn  Mawr,  and  that  all  the 


74  THE   MIDLANDERS 

boys  he  had  grown  up  with,  played  football  and  de 
bated  with;  and  all  the  girls  he  had  danced  with  his 
life  long,  had  gathered  to  speed  him  well.  Elise  was 
going  too ;  it  was  partly  in  her  honor. 

He  felt  Aurelie  falter  at  the  music,  then  after  his 
steadying  glance  at  her,  she  tensed  in  her  petite  inde 
pendence  and  went  with  him  through  the  door  to  the 
library.  His  father  and  mother  were  there  alone.  The 
Van  Hart  house  was  the  rendezvous  of  all  the  High 
Street  young  people ;  there  was  no  need  of  bidding  to 
its  fine,  open,  careless  welcome  any  one  of  Harlan's 
set.  So  while  the  guests  amused  themselves  in  the  par 
lors  the  judge  sat  at  his  paper  and  Mrs.  Van  Hart  was 
before  a  bookcase,  the  wall  light  upon  her  contour  of 
hair  and  brow.  There  was  about  her  the  inescapable 
inference  of  breeding,  that  same  charm  of  assurance,  of 
power,  of  books  and  gentle  ways,  which  the  room 
itself  disengaged — the  grace  of  right  living  and  of 
love,  that  splendid  wholesomeness  of  the  American 
home. 

Mrs.  Van  Hart  looked  up  at  them  in  surprise.  She 
did  not  recognize  Aurelie.  But  Harlan's  arm  was 
about  the  stranger.  The  lady  arose  with  an  exclama 
tion.  "My  dear,  have  you  been  hurt  ?" 

"No,"  said  Aurelie. 

"Mother,"  the  boy  began,  and  dropped  Aurelie's  hand 
and  stood  apart  in  quiet  dignity,  "she's  not  hurt." 
His  father  had  lowered  the  paper  and  turned  his  kindly 
eye  upon  them.  "We  came  to  tell  you,  mother,  we're 
engaged." 

He  saw  his  mother's  blue  eyes  narrow,  heard  the 
rustle  of  the  newspaper  in  the  judge's  hand.  From  the 


HER   GLIMPSE   OF   LIFE  75 

other  room  the  Schumann  song  went  on.  Mrs.  Van 
Hart  checked  the  flutter  in  her  voice.  "Engaged — 
Harlan?" 

"Yes.    To  Aurelie  Lindstrom." 

There  was  a  silence,  courteous,  even  kindly.  Harlan 
knew  at  all  costs  they  would  be  kindly.  If  the  Van 
Harts  had  sent  a  culprit  to  the  gallows  it  would  be 
done  without  scene — and  kindly.  His  mother  was  look 
ing  at  them  keenly ;  then  she  laughed,  briefly,  so  natu 
rally,  that,  for  a  moment,  even  Harlan  was  deceived. 
Then  to  Aurelie :  "My  dear — be  seated." 

The  girl  did  so  in  a  sort  of  dream.  They  had  wel 
comed  her !  They  had  called  her  "dear" !  It  was  all 
so  unutterably  different,  so  beautifully  different !  Her 
day  of  the  jinnee  had  dawned — the  most  beautiful  girl 
in  all  America!  Harlan's  home  opened  to  her  with 
love.  Love,  that  was  it — love  graced  and  opened 
everything.  Love  counted  nothing  of  her  simple 
gown,  love  asked  nothing  of  her  brown  hands,  her 
want  of  manner,  her  lack  of  speech  and  knowledge  of 
all  this  gentle  life — love  asked  her  in  and  opened  all 
the  way ! 

She  had  not  seen  the  judge's  paling  face,  his  eyes 
upon  his  son  with  a  crushed  despair,  so  glorified  was 
she  with  this.  The  mother  went  on :  "My  dear 
child — "  She  hesitated,  then  smiled  easily.  "You  sur 
prise  us.  It  is  a — a — thunderbolt!" 

"All  summer,  mother,"  Harlan  answered  doggedly — 
he  knew  the  shock  they  felt,  if  Aurelie  was  deceived — 
"we've  been  meeting  each  other.  It's  no  sudden  thing. 
I  should  have  told  you — I  hated  to  deceive  you" — he 
laughed  bluntly  and  looked  at  Aurelie,  perched  like 


76  THE   MIDLANDERS 

a  bird  blinded  by  a  light  upon  her  chair — "well,  I'm 
sorry  for  that.  But  now  I'm  going  away  to  school, 
and  I  want  you  to  care  for  Aurelie.  Just  to  know 
you,  mother — it  will  be  so  much  to  her!  I  wanted  to 
bring  her  here,  mother — home!  And  then  this  fool 
beauty  contest  that  Wiley  Curran  got  some  of  the  town 
girls  into — I  simply  couldn't  stand  it !" 

"Yes,"  his  mother  answered.  "Elise — her  picture 
was  sent.  It  was  abominable.  Mr.  Dickinson  tele 
phoned  to-night  to  ask  Mr.  Van  Hart  if  something 
actionable  could  not  be  done  about  it." 

Harlan  laughed  mirthlessly.  "Elise  didn't  get  the 
prize  so  no  one'll  know  of  her!  But  Aurelie — "  His 
eyes  went  hungrily  to  Aurelie,  dumb  on  her  chair, 
striving  to  grasp  what  might  be  this  amazing  beauty, 
for  he  had  never  thought  of  that  in  her !  The  purity 
of  her  oval  face,  the  perfect  line  of  her  small  throat, 
her  mouth,  budded  always  with  laughter,  now  grave 
as  a  nun,  her  black  heavy-lidded  eyes — he  had  merely 
loved  them  all. 

"Elise,"  rejoined  his  mother  briefly,  "need  not  be 
mentioned  now.  Harlan — your  engagement  .  .  .  ex 
traordinary."  She  had  murmured  something  that  they 
could  not  understand.  The  judge,  too,  had  muttered. 
If  the  only  son  had  been  brought  home  dead  they 
would  not  have  made  a  scene  before  their  guests  in 
the  next  room,  so  thorough  was  the  Van  Hart  inherit 
ance.  The  song  had  ceased,  a  buzz  of  gay  comment 
followed.  The  lady  nodded  at  the  open  door,  and  the 
judge  went  as  if  to  close  it.  Mrs.  Van  Hart  placed  a 
cool  and  gracious  hand  upon  Aurelie's  head.  "My 
dear,"  she  said  slowly,  "I  can  understand.  You're  both 


HER   GLIMPSE   OF   LIFE  77 

very  young,  and  these  summer  nights  along  Sinsinawa 
— beautiful!''    She  smiled  and  stroked  the  girl's  hair. 

"So  very  young,"  the  father  repeated.  "And  Har- 
lan — your  way  to  make — a  long  tough  battle"  .  .  . 
they  could  not  hear  the  rest  .  .  .  "the  law  .  .  . 
a  jealous  mistress  .  .  .  my  boy  .  .  .  my  boy!" 

Then,  before  them,  the  judge  arose  and  fled  hastily. 
To  Harlan  it  seemed  he  staggered  in  the  shadow  of  the 
dining-room. 

But  Aurelie  did  not  know.  She  seemed  stupefied  at 
all  this  largeness  of  soul.  She  had  not  dreamed  such 
grace,  such  warmth,  could  be.  Even  Uncle  Michigan's 
profane  and  picturesque  love  had  not  been  of  this 
amplitude.  Suddenly  she  felt  what  in  all  her  absurd 
and  lonely  pride  she  had  never  felt — a  remorseless 
misery  for  her  ignorance,  an  infinite  pathos  for  her 
beggary,  her  vanity,  her  unworth — she  tried  to  put 
her  browned  and  roughed  little  hands  away ;  and  then, 
with  a  great  humbleness,  she  knew  there  was  no  need. 
Love  was  about  her,  it  understood ;  it  covered  all.  She 
could  not  lift  her  eyes  for  the  tears  in  them ;  she  could 
not  trust  her  voice  to  speak. 

"She's  the  most  generous  little  heart  in  all  the 
world,"  Harlan  was  saying.  "And  I  want  you  to  help 
her,  mother.  All  this  publicity  and  prize-winning — 
we  hate  it!  Aurelie  has  given  it  up,  mother.  She 
promised — and  I  want  you  to  protect  her  till  I  come 
back!" 

There  was  a  silence.  Mrs.  Van  Hart  was  still  smil 
ing.  "What  a  wonderful  thing  youth  is!  And  how 
one  smiles  over  it  later!  My  dear  children,  I  don't 
know  what  to  say  to  you.  It — it  has  jarred  us,  Harlan ! 


78  .     THE   MIDLANDERS 

And  I  want  you  both  to  be  very  discreet  and  cool* 
headed."  She  smiled  again  and  with  such  a  rare  and 
lofty  tenderness  that,  for  a  moment,  Harlan  was  again 
deceived.  "Harlan  must  go  back  to  school  this  year, 
and  Aurelie" — her  breath  came  a  trifle  shorter — "my 
dear,  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  And  Harlan,  you  ought 
to  go  see  the  young  people  for  a  moment" — he  under 
stood  the  resolute  authority  in  her  tone — "and  your 
father — he  needs  you,  doubtless." 

The  son  looked  at  her  and  for  an  instant  rebellion 
flamed  in  his  eyes.  She  ruled  the  home  with  a  gracious 
will  but  one  of  steel.  Harlan  paused  uncertainly.  A 
defeated  surliness  arose  in  him.  He  had  felt  so  sure, 
so  loyal  to  Aurelie's  wild  pathos,  so  splendid  with  the 
strength  of  her  renunciation  for  him !  He  had  come 
eager  to  pour  it  forth,  to  exalt  it  and  defy  with  it; 
but  now  his  mother  was  in  command,  and  behind  her 
it  seemed  all  the  years  and  centuries  of  their  forebears, 
their  class  and  culture,  stood.  He  would  obey,  or  he 
would  revolt,  and  if  he  did  the  last,  there  would  be  a 
crisis,  cold,  sharp,  decisive,  he  could  not  tell  exactly 
of  what.  Only  he  knew  his  mother's  imperious  will. 
He  knew  she  was  looking  at  him ;  that  she  was  reading 
him.  He  raised  his  eyes  steadily  to  hers ;  in  them  was 
warning. 

"Yes,  mother,"  he  answered  quietly  and  left  the 
room. 

There  was  silence  again.  Then  the  piano  in  the 
front  room  strayed  to  a  waltz  song  from  the  latest 
musical  show ;  there  was  laughter,  a  step,  the  rustle  of 
a  gown — a  fluff  of  lace  in  the  doorway,  whisked  past, 
vanished  on  the  polished  hall.  Mrs.  Van  Hart  watched 


HER   GLIMPSE   OF   LIFE  79 

the  door  attentively  for  a  time.  Marian's  set  was  ac 
customed  to  drag  the  rugs  aside  and  dance  all  down 
the  hall  and  through  the  dining-room  without  asking 
of  any  one.  And  the  folding  doors  were  open. 

Then  her  cool  eyes  turned  to  Aurelie.  "How  old  are 
you,  child?" 

"Nineteen,  almost."  Aurelie  was  conscious  now  of 
a  placid  purpose  in  the  voice.  Yet  it  still  was  kind. 

"You're  so  very  slender.  I  didn't  dream  it.  I  re 
member  seeing  you  the  last  time  the  ladies  asked  the 
children  to  make  wreaths  for  the  Home  Week  festival. 
You  brought  such  quantities  and  had  them  wreathed 
about  you.  It  was — striking — but  I  thought  you  were 
a  child." 

"I  know,"  said  Aurelie  faintly. 

She  was  watching  the  big  hall  door.  An  audacious 
couple  had  waltzed  past  it;  the  music  was  louder,  the 
laughter  livelier.  "Some  of  Harlan's  friends  are  here. 
Old  high-school  friends,  Aurelie.  To  see  him  away  to 
college.  You  wouldn't  have  me  bring  him  back,  would 
you  ?"  She  smiled.  "You  love  him,  you  say !" 

"No,"  answered  Aurelie  more  faintly.  "If  it's  his 
party,  he  ought  to  stay.  Only — "  she  dreamed  away, 
watching  the  door.  In  her  eyes  the  lights  grew  to  all 
the  wondrous  glamour  that  was  calling  her  from  some 
where  ;  the  music  was  something  played  for  her  long- 
wandering  heart — it  was  outside,  it  was  over  the  hills, 
it  was  from  the  splendid  world ! 

"It  is  his  party  and  he  ought  to  stay,"  the  lady  smiled 
on.  "And  Aurelie,  you  think  you  love  him?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you'd  give  everything  for  him,  dear?" 


8o  THE    MIDLANDERS 

"Yes." 

"Dear  child,  there's  something  very  fine  about  you. 
But  our  boy — our  only  child,  Aurelie.  We  reared  him 
for  a  very  splendid  idea — a  noble  manhood,  a  brilliant 
career.  We — I — Judge  Van  Hart — can  do  everything 
for  him  in  this  state.  The  law — politics — he's  coming 
back  here  next  year  and  going  to  study  and  work  hard 
in  the  office.  And  he  has  no  money — nothing.  He'll 
have  to  live  at  home  and  grind  away,  and  it  will  be 
years,  Aurelie,  before  he  can  marry!  You  never 
thought  of  that,  did  you  ?  Nor  of  all  it  might  mean  to 
him — his  wife.  How  she  could  help  or  hinder  him. 
And  not  in  the  slightest  way  would  you  ever  injure 
him,  would  you,  dear?  If  you  knew  your  love  hurt 
him,  you'd  hold  it  back,  Aurelie,  wouldn't  you  ?  You'd 
bid  him  go  fight  and  make  his  way  and  forget  you 
...  I  can  see  all  this  in  you,  dear.  You  offered 
to  give  up  this  prize-winning  notoriety,  as  much  as 
you  could  for  him.  Why,  child,  it's  heroic  in  you." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Van  Hart!" 

"What?" 

"I — I'm  not  used  to  having  people  talk  like  this  to 
me!"  Aurelie's  eyes  were  filled  again.  "You're  so 
kind!  Just  splendid!  I  never  thought — I  never 
dreamed — " 

"Hush!"  the  lady  whispered — "I  fear  they're  com 
ing!"  Her  hand  closed  over  Aurelie's.  "And  you, 
dear — you'd  not  do  a  thing,  or  say  a  thing  to  hurt  him. 
You'd  let  him  go — refuse  him  if  you  had  to — to  send 
him  off  to  school  and  into  his  career  to  win  as  he  can 
win!" 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Van  Hart !    Of  course  I  would !  I'd  never 


HER   GLIMPSE    OF   LIFE  81 

let  him  know!  I'd  just  be  brave  and  laugh.  I  never, 
never,  thought  of  it !" 

For  an  instant  the  lady's  cool  blue  eyes  narrowed  in 
a  suspicion  of  some  trickery.  But  Aurelie  uprose 
now,  standing  with  her  wide  gaze  fixed  on  the  door 
where  her  lover  had  gone.  Into  his  world.  And  she 
could  not  follow.  There  was  no  Cinderella  slipper  for 
her  here ! 

"Our  boy,"  the  mother  whispered :  "if  you  could 
know — could  dream  what  he  means  to  us,  Aurelie! 
His  father — his  family — " 

The  girl  listened  dumbly.  The  lady's  voice  was 
breaking  now ;  and  Mrs.  Van  Hart  moved  from  her 
stately  manner  was  something  Aurelie  could  not  imag 
ine  apart  from  an  unthinkable  tragedy. 

"And  you're  his  mother,"  she  burst  out.  "Of  course 
I  know,  Mrs.  Van  Hart !  I'm  a  regular  little  heathen, 
but  I  know!  I  must  have  had  a  mother,  sometime, 
for  she  left  me  this" — she  raised  the  rosary  from  under 
her  chin — "Uncle  Michigan  says  I  had  it  when  he  done 
stole  me  to  occupy  the  land !" 

The  lady  nodded  sympathetically.  She  took  Aurelie's 
hand.  "Dear,  I  want  to  show  you  something."  She 
led  the  girl  across  the  room  softly  and  by  the  grill  and 
curtains  of  the  door  they  stopped.  "His  people,  Au 
relie,"  she  whispered:  "his  life  and  place.  There — 
he's  dancing  now!" 

Then  a  miracle  came  to  Aurelie.  Something  that  in 
all  her  wild  passion  and  jealous  freedom  of  the  South 
she  had  not  dreamed  could  be.  She  saw  Harlan  dan 
cing  with  Elise  Dickinson,  saw  him  pass  in  the  throng, 
the  waltzing  couples,  the  figures  of  dainty  girls  in 


82  THE   MIDLANDERS 

white  and  pink  and  delicate  blues.  And  the  music, 
dreamy  and  exquisite,  calling  to  her  heart  all  she  had 
read  or  felt  might  be  of  light  and  laughter  and  good 
ness — all  that  one  with  a  soul  to  love  would  love,  even 
as  one  starved.  Saw  and  was  unmoved  by  jealousy, 
by  passion,  by  resentment  or  desire.  Only  she  felt 
some  pure  and  lofty  pity  tug  her  heart,  whether  for 
Mrs.  Van  Hart,  or  Harlan,  or  herself  she  could  not 
tell.  Only  she  no  longer  felt  the  little  fool,  absurd  in 
her  pride,  but  as  though  she  had  accomplished  some 
wonderful  thing  that  raised  her  above  every  one,  even 
in  this  great  lady's  eyes. 

Yes,  she  could  look  dumb  and  clear-eyed  on  Harlan 
dancing  with  Elise,  and  without  desire  or  evil.  She 
drew  back  and  held  the  curtains  down  and  nodded  to 
the  mother. 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  said— "I'll  tell  him  so."  She 
moved  toward  the  veranda  door  across  the  room  and 
there  she  nodded  again.  "If  he  loves  me,  Mrs.  Van 
Hart,  he'll  come  back  to  me,  anyway,  if  it  was  years 
and  years !  But  I  won't  let  him — never — never — 
never !" 

Then,  as  she  turned  to  go,  she  was  conscious  that 
Harlan  was  in  the  other  door.  Harlan,  and  behind  him 
the  laughing  group  of  dancers.  He  saw  her  just  as  she 
stepped  into  the  cool  October  dark ;  and  midway,  under 
the  lights,  his  mother,  gracious,  smiling,  turned  to  the 
guests  in  welcome.  And  a  great  fear  shot  across  his 
face.  He  checked  a  cry  as  he  broke  from  Miss  Dick 
inson's  arm  and  dashed  across  the  room.  But  quick 
as  he  was,  his  mother  was  before  him,  in  the  doorway, 


HER   GLIMPSE   OF   LIFE  83 

blocking  his  egress,  yet  carelessly,  unnoted,  her  arm 
to  the  frame. 

"Mother!"  he  shouted.     "What  have  you  done?" 

For  answer  she  looked  at  him.  And  Aurelie,  out 
side,  a  wraith  melting  in  the  moonlight  under  the 
maples,  turning  her  head,  saw  the  mother's  face.  It 
was  tense  with  a  desperate  and  beautiful  hardness,  con 
vulsed  with  horror,  yet  controlled  as  by  the  art  of  an 
actress;  and  her  slender  figure  was  a  steel  in  spring 
set  against  him.  Aurelie  gave  a  gasp  of  admiration  as 
she  fled — terror  and  admiration,  for  it  was  as  if  Harlan 
was  about  to  strike  the  woman  in  the  doorway. 

"What  have  you  done  ?"  he  whispered.  "What  have 
you  done?" 

His  mother's  hand  was  on  his.  She  turned  to  the 
gay  little  groups  who  were  now  strolling  from  the 
music-room,  gracious,  imperturbable,  victorious.  He 
stood  staring  out  at  the  flick  of  the  leaves.  Once  he 
blurted  a  man's  savagery  upon  her,  and  once  he  turned 
to  go.  But  they  were  all  about  him  now/ laughing. 
Elise  came  to  him  by  the  window  where  he  again  was 
staring  out. 

"What's  the  matter,  Harlan?  You  look  as  if  you 
had  seen  a  ghost !" 

"I  have."  Again  he  fought  his  desperate  insurgence 
to  quit  them  all,  to  curse  them  all — to  shout  his  anger 
and  his  humiliation  at  them  all  and  leave.  But  he 
smiled,  after  a  moment,  into  Elise's  friendly  eyes,  ban 
tering  chummy  eyes;  in  a  little  while  he  was  himself, 
gracious,  imperturbable. 

The  Van  Hart  hereditament  won. 


CHAPTER  VI 

TO   OCCUPY   THE   LAND 

A  URELIE  sped  up  the  narrow  road  that  skirted 
/~\  the  rocky  face  of  Eagle  Point  bluff,  on  one  side  the 
creek  shrouded  with  laurel  and  sumac,  on  the  other  the 
uncouth  board  fences  of  the  rear  lots  of  the  town.  She 
did  not  heed  her  steps.  Once,  on  a  rise  of  the  path, 
she  stopped  and  gazed  stonily  back  at  the  lights  of  the 
house.  At  last  she  seemed  to  understand  that  she  had 
been  bowed  out,  dismissed  in  a  manner  so  marvelously 
gracious  that  she,  the  little  fool,  had  not  known  it — she 
had  stood  with  a  heart  so  full  of  gratefulness  that  she 
had  not  dared  trust  her  voice ;  she  had  given  all  with  an 
inexplicable  rapture  of  renunciation.  She  was  burn 
ing  with  a  fear  that  she  had  been  outrageously  tricked, 
and  then  a  knowledge  that,  in  some  desolating  way, 
the  mother  was  right. 

"She  never  shook  hands  with  me,"  the  girl  whis 
pered  and  climbed  on,  her  pale  face  turned  to  the  hills, 
"she  just  smiled!  And  had  her  way!  Oh,  I  wish  I 
could  do  that — that's  being  a  lady!"  Then  she  turned 
fiercely  to  look  back.  "I  hate  'em — all  of  'em !  They're 
different.  Harlan's  different — I  see  now!" 

Then  a  last  faint  note  of  the  piano  came  on  the  night 
wind,  and  she  shut  her  ears  with  her  hands  and  fled 
on  to  gain  the  cliff,  up,  anywhere,  to  silence  and  to 


TO   OCCUPY   THE    LAND  85 

freedom.  She  burst  around  the  buttress  of  rock  where 
the  road  ended  in  Eagle  Point  trail,  and  there,  directly 
behind  the  Neivs  office  fence,  a  man  in  shirt-sleeves 
was  emptying  a  basket  of  bottles  down  the  creek  bank. 
The  girl  almost  struck  him  as  she  sped  across  the  foot 
bridge.  He  stopped  his  task,  looked  up,  cried  after 
her,  and  then  followed.  She  reached  the  trail  and 
heard  him  toiling  on  among  the  boulders. 

"Aurelie!"  he  gasped:   "What's  the  matter?" 

She  did  not  answer  and  he  leaped  on.  But  the  girl 
gained  swiftly  on  him,  steep  as  the  ascent  was,  until 
he  saw  her  slip  on  a  pinnacle  of  rock,  heard  her  cry 
out  and  pitch  down  into  a  hollow  filled  with  dry  leaves. 
He  dashed  on  to  find  her  a  prisoner  in  the  Pocket, 
waist  deep  in  the  leaves,  sullen,  breathing  hard,  her 
hair  disordered.  She  would  not  look  at  him. 

"Aurelie — what  on  earth's  the  matter  ?" 

"I  fell  and  broke  my  arm." 

He  leaped  down  and  struggled  to  her.  They  both 
were  panting.  "You're  suffering !"  Mr.  Curran  gasped. 

She  laughed  and  flung  a  bloody  little  hand  up  to  him. 
He  saw  her  tense  and  tragic  face ;  there  was  more  than 
mortal  hurt  there. 

He  took  her  arm  and  she  rebelled,  pulling  it  away 
until  she  writhed  with  pain.  But  he  made  her  sit,  and 
tore  his  handkerchief  to  bind  the  cut,  after  examin 
ing  it. 

"It's  not  broken,  Aurelie!  Only  gashed — maybe 
sprained." 

"I  wish  it  was  broken — everything!" 

He  could  hear  her  heart  beat  as  he  bent  to  bind  the 
wrist.  "You  little  savage — running  off  wild  like  this. 


86  THE   MIDLANDERS 

And  the  prize  winner,  Aurelie!  The  most  beautiful 
girl  in  all  the  West,  they  say !" 

She  stared  dumbly  at  him.  Perhaps  he,  too,  was 
mocking  her,  playing  on  her  full  heart,  her  heedless 
generosity,  her  hungry  soul,  her  love.  There  was 
none  of  her  small  poses  and  airs  about  her  now,  but  the 
Celt's  romance  stirred  in  him  at  some  wild  beauty  in 
her.  When  he  had  bound  her  arm  she  quivered,  and 
he  had  a  sense  she  was  about  to  leap  from  him  like  a 
creature  of  the  woods  at  the  chance  of  freedom.  Then 
she  turned  to  him. 

"She  fooled  me ;  and  I'm  going  away." 

"Fooled  you?" 

"His  mother.  And  I  said  I'd  give  him  up  to  her,  but 
now  I  see  she  only  fooled  me.  I  hate  them  now — 
and  him,  too !" 

"Aurelie!"  Mr.  Curran  was  bewildered.  "I  never 
knew  of  this  affair — you  and  Harlan.  It's  astound 
ing" — he  rubbed  his  forehead — "impossible !" 

"You  think  so,  too?"  she  blurted.  "All  right.  I'm 
a  fool,  I  guess.  But  I'll  show  'em."  She  came  directly 
to  him.  "Oh,  Mr.  Curran,  I  want  to  go  away !  I  told 
'em  I'd  give  up  this  prize  thing,  if  he  wanted  me  to. 
But  now  it's  different.  Mr.  Curran,  I  want  to  be 
somebody!" 

She  was  staring  at  him  in  the  moonlight.  Mr.  Cur 
ran  could  not  stand  that;  his  own  vagabond  heart 
throbbed  mightily.  He,  too,  was  the  exile,  the  out- 
lander.  To  be  somebody !  Right  then  and  there,  Mr. 
Curran  knew  he  would  lead  any  forlorn  hope  for  her, 
for  any  one  who  wanted  to  be  somebody. 


TO    OCCUPY   THE    LAND  87 

"You  are!"  he  cried.  "And  you  can  go  away,  too, 
and  show  'em !" 

Her  white  face  stirred  a  bit.  Then,  with  the  direct 
simplicity  of  her  down-river  years,  she  muttered :  "Mr. 
Curran,  I  could  just  love  you.  I  never  would  have 
been  a  beautiful  girl  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you !" 

Mr.  Curran  sat  down  and  rubbed  the  bald  spot  on 
his  head.  He  was  a  man  who  had  walked  alone  and 
known  the  sorrow  of  evil.  He  put  a  kindly  hand  to  her 
shoulder.  He  was  trying  to  believe  he  had  a  great 
fatherly  pity  for  her. 

"Now,  little  girl,"  he  said,  "let's  walk  the  trail 
home.  It's  beautiful — we  can  see  the  river  in  a  mo 
ment — there!  The  Mississippi!  'Way  off  there  you 
came  from,  didn't  you  ?  I  lived  there  once,  Aurelie.  I 
left  a  bit  of  my  heart  there  among  your  people.  You're 
something  of  a  savage,  and  you'll  never  get  rid  of  what 
the  wilderness  put  in  you — never,  never — God  bless 
you !  People  will  never  understand,  but  I  do !" 

She  sighed.  "I  wish  you'd  take  me  away,  Mr.  Cur 
ran — and  let  me  do  something.  Just  like  Uncle  Mich 
said  :  To  occupy  the  land !' " 

"You  shall!"  he  cried  riotously.  "Why,  what  a 
chance  you've  got,  Aurelie!  You're  the  little  rebel 
done  come  up  the  river  to  occupy  the  land !  You  must 
come  to  the  office  to-morrow,  for  two  men  are  coming 
from  Chicago  to  see  you.  The  Sunday  editor  of  the 
Chronicle,  and  an  artist  to  draw  you.  And  the  Chroni 
cle  will  give  you  a  prize.  One  hundred  dollars.  It's 
not  much.  It's  all  an  advertising  scheme  with  the 
Chronicle,  of  course,  but  for  you — Aurelie,  you'll  be 


88  THE    MIDLANDERS 

rich  and  famous  one  of  these  days,  just  see  if  you're 
not!" 

She  rubbed  the  bloody  little  bandage  on  her  wrist 
and  stared  over  the  town.  "I  just  will!  And  I  just 
love  you,  Mr.  Curran !  You're  all  the  friend  I  got !" 

Mr.  Curran  gasped  again.  "I  sure  will  help  you, 
Aurelie.  This  old  town's  got  no  use  for  either  of  us. 
We're  the  insurgents!"  And  he  took  her  hand  gajly 
on  the  path  and  danced  her  along  until,  to  her  set 
pale  lips,  a  smile  had  to  come.  And  after  it  a  sob ;  and 
then  the  smile  again ! 

When  Mr.  Curran  left  her  at  Lindstrom's  fence  he 
went  back  in  a  dream  to  his  old  print-shop.  He  lighted 
the  gas  and  took  his  pipe,  filled  it,  sat  down  and  drew 
aimlessly  on  it  half  an  hour  before  he  discovered  it  was 
not  burning. 

"Wasting  my  life,"  he  muttered,  "wasting  my  life ! 
By  jove,  that  little  girl's  got  me  going!  I'm  going  to 
wake  up  and  do  something,  too!" 

He  did.    He  fumbled  around  until  he  found  a  match. 

The  most  beautiful  girl  perhaps  in  all  America ! 
Could  the  sentimental  Mr.  Curran  sleep  after  that? 
His  hair  was  thin  and  he  had  swung  the  circle  and 
come  back  to  the  prosy  old  town,  but  no  matter !  He 
took  a  photograph  out  of  his  desk  a  dozen  times  to 
study  it.  Some  careless  miracle  of  an  obscure  country 
studio  had  caught  an  arch  stateliness,  a  breathing 
grace,  a  spiritual  purity  that  made  the  town  gasp  when 
it  saw  the  thing — gasp,  and  then  declare  it  could  not 
possibly  be  the  bootlegger's  girl.  Mr.  Curran  groped 
for  the  entrancement ;  yes,  it  was  she — he  had  seen  her 
face  so  in  the  moonlight. 


TO   OCCUPY   THE    LAND  89 

"The  dear  kid,"  he  murmured,  and  kissed  the  picture 
and  laid  it  away. 

Aurelie  went  about  the  next  morning  in  a  dream. 
She  helped  Mrs.  Lindstrom  with  the  breakfast  dishes 
and  then  carried  the  baby  out  on  the  sunshine  of  the 
porch  to  play  with  him.  Neighbor  women  came  and 
went.  Already  they  were  discussing  her,  she  knew. 
The  household  had  been  in  a  hubbub,  she  the  calmest  of 
them  all— Old  Michigan's  astounded  questions,  John's 
suspicious  fanaticism,  the  wife's  silly  comments,  the 
boys'  puzzled  awe. 

Aurelie  a-going  to  have  her  picture  in  the  paper ! 

Well,  it  was  like  Aurelie.  To  Knute  and  Peter  she 
was  ever  the  princess  off  on  amazing  adventures,  a 
fairy  who  played  with  them  and  yet  was  not  of  them. 
From  the  porch  she  watched  them  milking  a  lean- 
hipped  heifer  which  they  had  aroused,  standing  with 
their  bare  feet  in  the  steam  of  her  bed  to  avoid  the 
frosty  grass.  Knute  shivered  in  his  cotton  shirt ;  above 
the  singsong  of  the  milking  his  chattering  voice  re 
torted  to  Peter : 

"Aw,  Aurelie,  she  ain't  a-goinj  to  get  stuck  up! 
She'll  come  out  and  go  rabbit  huntin'  with  us  fellers 
even  if  she  does  get  her  picture  in  the  paper !" 

Later  she  went  past  them  in  the  yard,  dressed  in  her 
best  gown,  a  cheap  fantastic  circlet  of  brass  in  her  hair 
which  Uncle  Michigan  had  given  her  years  ago.  She 
rarely  wore  a  hat,  for  she  had  none  to  her  pride.  The 
boys  yelled  their  friendly  derision  at  her  finery.  From 
the  porch  Mrs.  Lindstrom  whined  her  fright.  She  was 
"clean  upset"  by  Aurelie's  fortune.  But  maybe  it 
meant  a  job.  "Lord  knows  we  need  it.  John  laid 


90  THE   MIDLANDERS 

up  with  his  arm  and  Albert  not  workin'  steady.  Maybe 
Aurelie  would  get  a  job  in  the  News  office,  but  Lord 
knows  what  would  happen  to  a  girl  who  got  her  name 
in  the  paper."  She  sniffled  on  to  the  neighbor  woman, 
and  Aurelie  marched  on  with  vast  pride.  Not  all  the 
beauty  of  the  October  sun  level  from  the  hills  against 
the  filigree  of  red  and  gold  hung  against  the  cliff  face 
could  stir  this  beaten  labor  woman  of  the  cities.  "Lord 
knows  Aurelie'll  get  us  all  in  the  papers.  Ain't  my 
man  had  enough  hard  luck  without  this  ?" 

Aurelie  went  on,  a  slender  scarlet  figure  on  the  leaf- 
carpeted  creek  road.  She  wilfully  passed  the  bridge 
to  cross  Sinsinawa  on  the  mossy  stones  among  the 
rushing  water.  A  red  squirrel  scolded  her  from  the 
willows,  and  she  charged  him  laughingly,  her  breath 
quick  in  the  keen  air,  her  eyes  bright  with  delightful 
freedom.  And  while  the  squirrel  barked  his  indignation 
from  a  safe  tree,  she  laughed  again,  and  then  suddenly 
remembered  that  she  was  trying  to  be  miserable,  and 
yet  rebelling  against  it  with  all  her  pride. 

When  she  came  to  the  neat  houses  of  High  Street 
the  eyes  of  early  housewives,  airing  their  rugs,  caught 
her  gipsy  figure ;  they  whispered  to  the  household,  and 
noses  flattened  against  the  panes  to  watch  her  pass. 
Already,  despite  Mr.  Curran's  effort  to  hold  the  story 
for  the  Sunday  papers,  the  town  was  buzzing  with 
Aurelie  Lindstrom's  notoriety.  It  was  aghast,  it  was 
incredulous;  but  when  she  passed  it  ran  to  see  and 
whispered.  When  she  neared  the  Square  and  passed 
a  shop  where  the  cheerful  anvils  rang,  she  was  con 
scious  that  the  work  stopped  and  the  smiths  came  out 
of  the  blue  haze  in  their  leather  aprons  to  stare  after 


TO   OCCUPY   THE   LAND  91 

her ;  and  when  a  farm  wagon  came  along,  heaped  with 
frosted  corn,  the  hired  man  hailed  her;  and  when  she 
passed  the  Hub  Clothing  Store,  a  dapper  clerk  called : 
''Hello,  Aurelie!"  And  all  the  other  clerks  and  the 
proprietor  gathered  open-mouthed,  to  whisper. 

She  set  her  shoulders  straighter  and  marched  on  into 
the  News  office.  The  editor  arose  hastily  and  stared 
at  her.  Then  he  sighed  and  came  to  her  with  his  hand 
out.  "Aurelie,  I  see  it  now!" 

"What  ?"  she  asked  innocently. 

'The  beauty  winner!  Oh,  we're  a  lot  of  chumps 
around  this  old  town!  Here  you  grew  up  among  us 
and  nobody  ever  suspected.  You're  the  most  beautiful 
girl  I  ever  saw!" 

She  sat  down  perplexedly.  Jim  Mims,  the  tramp 
printer,  toothless  and  whisky-soaked,  grinned  at  her 
over  his  case.  Aleck,  the  press  boy,  stopped  his  work. 
Rube  Van  Hart,  the  broken-down  ball-player,  stuffing 
old  papers  into  the  stove,  lifted  his  derby  awkwardly : 
"Morning,  Aurelie!" 

All  the  world  seemed  radiant  with  friendliness !  The 
editor  had  her  hand  and  refused  to  drop  it.  His  eyes 
were  bright  with  eagerness. 

"Right  here  in  my  old  shop,"  he  said,  "is  Cinder 
ella  !" 

She  looked  seriously  at  him.  She  had  never  known 
anybody  like  Wiley  T.  Curran.  He  seemed  like  a  man 
who  had  produced  a  miracle  when  he  merely  meant  to 
knock  out  his  pipe.  There  it  was,  the  sparks  flew, 
and  the  fairy  stood  on  tiptoes  smiling  at  him!  An 
Irishman  had  to  believe  in  them. 

"Miss  Cinderella,"  went  on  Curran,  "there  come  the 


92  THE   MIDLANDERS 

Chronicle  men  now  from  the  Parsons  House.  Those 
people  sent  Max  Jerome  down  to  sketch  you — the  top- 
notch  illustrator  in  the  business." 

She  had  never  heard  of  him.  Two  men  came  in: 
one  fat,  short,  busy-looking;  the  other  a  lanky  youth 
who  laid  down  a  flat  case  of  card  papers  and  turned  a 
good-humored  ironical  face  directly  on  her. 

"And  you're  Aurelie  Lindstrom,"  he  said.  "Well, 
well !" 

The  stout  little  man  took  her  hand  warmly  at  Cur- 
ran's  introduction.  "The  Chronicle  wants  to  congratu 
late  you,  Miss  Lindstrom.  It's  great!  Curran,  here, 
has  been  telling  about  you" — he  looked  flustered  for 
a  minute — "and  it's  great  stuff!  But  we  don't  want 
these  state  papers  to  get  in  on  this  until  we  spread  on  it 
Sunday — understand !  Don't  let  'em  get  your  picture, 
or  buzz  you.  And  we  got  to  make  that  eleven-twenty 
train  from  the  Junction" — he  looked  at  his  watch — 
"and  Max  wants  to  sketch  you.  We're  going  to  run  a 
three-color  border  on  the  sup  that's  a  pippin.  Wait  till 
you  see  that  Carmen  effect  of  yours  in  the  Chronicle 
layout.  It's  going  to  make  'em  sit  up." 

She  didn't  understand  a  word  of  it.  She  looked 
appealingly  at  Mr.  Curran.  Then  she  was  conscious 
that  Max,  the  artist,  was  sketching  her  swiftly,  silently, 
glancing  first  at  her  and  then  at  the  light  in  the  News? 
dingy  windows  and  then  at  his  board. 

"Say,"  went  on  the  assistant  Sunday  editor,  "I'm 
mighty  glad  you  got  it,  Miss  Lindstrom.  You  see  the 
Chronicle  contest  was  straight — it  was  no  frame-up 
for  one  of  these  show  girls,  who  are  always  butting  in 
on  these  things.  I  tell  you  I  never  was  so  pleased  at 


Do  you  know,  you  interest  me  more  than  anything  I've  done 
since   I    did   some   girls   in   Algiers." 


TO   OCCUPY   THE   LAND  93 

anything  as  to  find  you  didn't  know  a  thing  about  it !" 

"Not  a  blamed  thing !"  cried  Mr.  Curran,  "till  I  told 
her !  Why,  I  even  forgot  I  ever  sent  those  pictures  in. 
The  most  beautiful  woman — "  He  stared  at  her,  and 
then  broke  off  mournfully:  "Say,  Dickinson,  the  gro 
cer,  telephoned  in  this  morning  with  an  awful  roar. 
Pulled  his  advertising  out  of  the  News  and  stopped  the 
paper,  because  I  sent  in  his  girl's  picture!  And  she 
didn't  get  a  look-in !" 

The  Sunday  editor  chuckled.  Max  smiled  ironically. 
He  came  to  Aurelie  with  a  deft  firm  touch  of  his  white 
fingers.  "A  little  more  to  the  light,  Miss  Lindstrom. 
Just  that — there."  He  stopped  thoughtfully  and  looked 
down  again.  "Your  hair — you  couldn't  have  it  done 
better  on  Michigan  Avenue.  Some  women  can,  you 
know,  and  some  can't — some  can't  even  buy  it."  He 
went  back  to  his  sketches.  "There's  a  curious  trick 
about  you — "  he  began  to  work,  and  then  stopped  and 
laid  down  his  pencil. 

"What's  the  matter,  Max?"  grunted  the  newspaper 
man. 

Max  was  watching  her  strangely.  He  muttered; 
then  he  said,  without  regard  to  his  companion:  "Miss 
Lindstrom,  do  you  know  you  interest  me  more  than 
anything  I've  done  since  I  did  some  girls  in  Algiers. 
You — there's  a  bit  of  the  Orient  about  you — or 
Mexico." 

"I'm  a  Creole,  I  think,"  she  said  pensively.  "That's 
what  Uncle  Michigan  said." 

The  two  Chicago  men  exchanged  glances.  "Oh,  yes," 
the  editor  put  in — "Curran  was  saying.  Your  story — 
romantic,  Miss  Lindstrom.  I've  seen  girls  like  you  on 


94  THE   MIDLANDERS 

Royal  Street.  Not  many,  but  once  in  a  while  a  Creole 
with  a  beautiful  face.  But  your  story,  Miss  Lind- 
strom — great  stuff — we're  going  to  flash  it  big."  He 
looked  at  his  watch  busily.  "Max,  you  better  kick  in 
hard— " 

And  in  the  silence  she  discovered  again  that  the 
artist  had  stopped  to  watch  her  and  his  ironical  smile 
was  gone.  Presently  she  heard  him  mutter  and  resume 
work,  but  ever  and  again  he  stopped  to  study  her 
dreamily. 

"Got  Max  going,"  drawled  the  Sunday  editor,  "and 
they  don't  pass  bad  ones  on  Max.  And  the  chaps  who 
picked  your  picture,  Miss  Lindstrom,  out  of  all  that 
bunch — thousands  and  thousands  of  'em — why,  they're 
no  slouches  either.  There  was  Pixley  of  the  Art  Insti 
tute,  and  Martineau  who  has  charge  of  the  Philadel 
phia  collection,  and  Benny  Booth,  who  does  that  girl 
stuff  for  the  syndicate.  Three  guys  who  ought  to 
know.  And  they  picked  you!" 

She  sighed  luxuriantly  and  said  nothing.  Wiley 
was  aghast  at  all  this  complacence.  He  followed  her 
eyes,  which  were  fixed  on  the  morning  peace  of  the 
court-house  lawn  under  the  maples.  Up  the  bluff  she 
heard  the  bob-whites  calling,  and  the  gleam  of  a  dove's 
wing  came  before  the  window. 

The  most  beautiful  woman! 

One  does  not  easily  grasp  it,  if  one  has  lived  an  ob 
scure  life  of  common  duties  in  a  gray  little  world ;  at 
times  hungry,  chilled,  hurt  with  rebuff,  undershot  with 
sadness.  One  may  wander  the  world  striving  for  gain 
or  fame,  dig  for  treasure,  grow  old,  dim-eyed,  seeking 
applause,  admiration,  love — but  here,  at  once,  without 


TO    OCCUPY   THE    LAND  95 

asking,  seeking  nothing,  knowing  nothing,  the  jinnee 
had  come  and  broken  the  magic  vase  at  her  feet! 

She  sighed  again  her  luxurious  peace.  The  garru 
lous  Sunday  editor's  voice  came  faintly  through  her 
dream.  "When  you  come  to  Chicago  the  paper  will 
entertain  you.  The  old  man  himself  is  crazy  about 
that  picture — wants  a  special  wire  as  to  what  Max 
thought  of  you.  When  you  get  some  clothes — er — 
Miss — Miss — " 

"Not  a  bit,"  retorted  Max.  "It  would  be  a  sin  to  put 
anything  on  her.  Look  at  her!  In  the  door-frame — 
the  maples  on  the  bluff  beyond  her — the  sun  on  that 
sumac!  That  little  gown,  the  circlet  in  her  hair,  the 
flower — good  God,  girl,  did  you  get  yourself  up  for 
this?" 

She  smiled  complacently.  "They  make  fun  of  me," 
she  murmured,  and  Max  growled  an  unintelligible 
anathema  on  Rome,  Iowa. 

And  while  she  sat  there  with  the  eyes  of  the  silent 
men  upon  her,  a  step  sounded  upon  the  sidewalk.  Har- 
lan  came  past.  Her  face  grew  rigid  when  he  saw  her. 
He  appeared  about  to  swing  into  the  News  office  in  his 
old  genial  fashion  to  see  Wiley.  Then  he  met  Aurelie's 
blank  gaze  and  gazed  as  blankly  at  her.  She  saw  his 
big  sensitive  nose  quiver,  he  stared  furiously  at  Max 
and  his  work,  so  furiously  that  she  was  frightened  and 
tried  to  speak  to  him.  But  her  voice  failed  her,  and 
Harlan,  looking  now  at  her,  spoke  doggedly. 

"Aurelie,  are  you  going  into  this?" 

"Into  this?" 

"This  abominable  contest — going  to  have  your  pic 
ture  in  and  all  the  stuff  printed  about  you !" 


96  THE    MIDLANDERS 

He  was  mad  with  despair,  it  seemed;  he  almost 
leaped  in  the  doorway.  "You  shan't  I"  he  roared. 

"Yes,  I  shall!"  She  looked  fixedly  at  him.  "I  just 
made  up  my  mind.  I'm  just  going  in  for  every 
thing  and  be  somebody !" 

The  young  man  stared  at  her.  Then  he  whirled 
about,  looked  at  her  from  the  sidewalk  and  went  on 
without  answer.  And  Aurelie  turned  a  pale  face  back 
to  Max  and  tried  to  smile. 

"Who,"  said  the  Sunday  editor,  "is  that  damned 
fool?" 

Wiley  mumbled  awkwardly.  "Judge's  son  .  .  . 
best  family.  Sort  of — well,  gone  on  her." 

"Good  dope,"  commented  the  newspaper  man  lacon 
ically.  "Got  his  picture  about  your  shop  ?  Heart  inter 
est,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing — big  as  a  house!  Get 
us  a  come-on  story  to  follow  Thursday." 

Aurelie  stared  at  him.  Then  she  jumped  down  and 
walked  before  the  Sunday  sup  man  and  shook  her  fist 
under  his  nose.  "His  picture  in  the  paper?  If  you 
ever  do  that,  I'll  go  to  Chicago  and  tear  up  every  paper 
in  your  old  shop !" 

And  turning  around  she  walked  out  and  up  High 
Street  with  the  air  of  an  empress. 

"Well,  I'm  jiggled!"  murmured  the  Sunday  editor. 
"Help !" 


CHAPTER  VII 

PIGS  AND   POLITICS 

WHEN  a  man  is  sixty  and  has  lived  well ;  when  he 
has  had  money  without  moiling  and  honor  with 
out  envy ;  has  received  and  amplified  to  the  full  a  her 
itage  of  the  best  without  effort  and  without  price ; 
when  youth  and  maturity  have  been  chastened  and 
molded  by  that  fine,  rugged  American  tradition  which 
began  with  the  founding  of  Harvard  and  the  James 
town  planters  and  followed  easily  the  fighting  line  of 
pioneers  as  the  frontiers  of  the  republic  were  length 
ened — when  one  has,  indeed,  had,  righteously  and 
wholesomely,  all  there  is  to  be  had,  there  is  apt  to  come 
an  arrest  of  development.  There  comes  a  coolness  of 
blood,  a  reserve  of  faiths,  a  caution  of  more  than  age 
and  the  finer  usage.  One  will  discover  at  least  one 
family  of  this  sort  in  every  small  town  of  the  mid  West 
which  is  of  and  yet  apart  from  the  local  aristocracy  of 
the  soil-enriched,  the  banker,  the  grocer,  the  lawyer 
and  landholder ;  a  family  with  an  eastern  tradition  of 
the  best — New  England  or  Virginia — a  pretension  to 
the  elegance  of  culture ;  a  group  which,  while  easily 
the  leaders,  sits  in  a  state  of  correct  isolation  lest  their 
honorable  individualism  be  trampled  by  the  newer 
needs  of  newer  blood. 

The  Van  Harts,  migrating  leisurely  behind  the  star 
97 


98  THE    MIDLANDERS 

of  empire,  had  beheld  afar  the  dust  and  shouting;  they 
had  been  formed  by  social  forces  that  had  run  their  fire 
of  youth,  that  New  England  state  of  mind  of  ante- 
slavery  days  which  had  once  been  the  national  con 
science,  but  was  now  vestigial  and  static.  The  inpour- 
ing  of  hungrier  races  to  the  mid  West,  who  had 
scratched  the  bleak  prairies,  finding  the  fat  and  virgin 
lands  now  gone;  the  surge  of  the  political  revolts  of 
the  trans-Mississippi  settlers,  time  and  again  from  the 
days  of  populism  to  the  present;  the  pathos  and  the 
idealism  of  all  this  eager  building,  had  not  touched 
them.  Their  county,  one  of  the  Iowa  Reserve,  had 
felt  faintly  the  thunder  of  the  awakening;  the  dingy 
offices  of  the  Rome  court-house  had  been  filled  by  a 
group  of  the  "best  people"  so  long  that  they  seemed 
the  hereditament  of  a  class  and  a  leadership. 

There  were  younger  men  who  grew  up  to  feel  vague 
ly  the  lapse  between  what  was  best  in  the  days  of  their 
fathers  and  the  needs  of  to-day.  Harlan  Van  Hart, 
himself,  had  discerned  curiously  the  rift  between  the 
fine  spiritual  environ  of  his  father's  example  and  the 
new,  troublous,  social  conscience.  In  his  debates  of 
high  school,  his  loungings  about  Wiley  Curran's  news 
shop,  his  friendship  with  Arne  Vance,  son  of  Old  Jake, 
the  "political  farmer",  the  county's  first  insurgent,  he 
had  wondered  at  it.  The  new  movement  was  no  hun 
ger-rebellion  of  the  cities,  the  mid  West  was  enriched 
— why,  then,  the  outcry  ? 

Harlan  was  packing  for  his  departure.  He  thought 
rather  grimly  of  the  journey  East.  Elise  would  be  on 
the  train  on  her  way  to  school,  also,  and  he  would  have 
to  talk  to  her.  Elise  and  all  the  town  were  curious 


PIGS    AND   POLITICS  99 

with  some  story  concerning  him  and  Aurelie  Lind- 
strom, — nothing  definite,  but  all  the  more  perplexing 
for  that.  Harlan  had  slowly  flamed  since  last  night 
with  a  resentment  new  in  the  genial  complacence  of 
his  life.  When  the  packing  was  done  he  sat  by  the 
window  where  he  could  see  the  red  and  gold  filigree 
of  the  sugar  maples  thinly  covering  the  rock  face  of 
Eagle  Point  back  of  the  town.  To-day  a  blue  haze 
enveloped  the  highest  pinnacle.  Somewhere,  out  of 
this  lazy  freedom,  a  cow-bell  tinkled.  It  was  Saturday, 
and  he  knew  the  boys  were  gathering  wild  crab-apples 
up  along  Sinsinawa  in  the  hills  and  routing  rabbits  out 
of  the  fence  corners.  He  felt  immeasurably  old  some 
way,  and  out  of  all  this  kindly  prosiness.  He  had  an 
inclination  to  climb  to  the  hills  and  then  checked  it  with 
a  bitter  refusal — the  hills  and  all  this  autumn  glory 
were  a  part  of  her  and  the  inextricable  confusion  of 
wrong  and  right,  duty  and  honor,  into  which  he  was 
plunged.  He  was  angered  at  his  mother ;  he  was  en 
raged  at  Aurelie.  He  had  asked  her  to  give  up  this 
silly  business  of  her  prize-winning,  and  she  had  sturdily 
refused  at  the  last.  His  mother,  his  class,  his  tradition, 
career^  Harvard  and  the  law — all  had  to  do  with  his 
intolerable  sense  of  rebellion  and  defeat.  Something 
was  inevitably  wrong,  perhaps  with  himself.  Perhaps, 
he  did  not  even  love  Aurelie  so  much — it  was  summer 
madness  as  his  mother  had  said ;  but  he  felt  a  shame 
that  he  would  allow  this.  A  man,  he  told  himself, 
would  smash  his  way  through  to  win,  if  he  greatly 
desired ;  but  he  was  a  Van  Hart  and  they  were  not 
given  to  that  sort  of  thing.  They  would  coolly  con 
sider  a  great  many  things  before  they  struck  a  blow. 


ioo  THE   MIDLANDERS 

He  had  intended  to  go  down  to  the  drug-store  corner 
where  the  fellows  usually  met  to  smoke  and  chaff  and 
grind  out  airs  on  Playter's  phonograph,  while  groups 
of  girls  came  in  from  school  or  shopping  to  buy  sodas. 
He  would  meet  them  all  in  the  frank  comradeship  of 
the  town's  way,  walk  home  with  one,  or  loiter  at  the 
high-school  football  practise.  There  were  any  number 
of  ways  to  spend  one's  last  afternoon  in  the  old  town 
where  one  was  so  pleasantly  a  favored  son.  His  father 
was  at  court  and  his  mother  at  her  club.  But  he  had 
a  curious  disinclination  to  idle  around  the  Square.  He 
took  a  notion  to  dress  for  dinner,  although  there  were 
to  be  no  guests.  His  father  did  so  occasionally  in  their 
home  life ;  it  was  understood  by  the  Van  Harts  as  an 
assertion  of  old  and  real  standards.  There  were  but 
nine  families  in  Rome  who  even  dined  at  night,  and 
these  nine  definitely  fixed  the  social  life.  People  who 
dine  at  six  do  not  dine  in  shirt-sleeves. 

Harlan  was  going  to  dress  for  the  last  home  dinner. 
It  would  divert  him  from  his  inexplicable  dissatisfac 
tion,  perhaps.  He  looked  about  his  room  at  the  tro 
phies  of  his  undergraduate  days — banners,  dance  pro 
grams,  favors,  his  tennis  rackets,  fraternity  parch 
ments — hung  as  he  had  cherished  them.  Now  he  felt 
an  intolerance  of  this  sophomoric  display.  He  prom 
ised  that  when  he  came  back  next  fall  all  this  truck 
should  go  to  the  garret.  It  should  be  a  man's  room, 
for  to-day  he  felt  no  more  the  boy.  He  would  be  the 
man ;  something  had  come  to  him  in  his  bitterness,  his 
first  bewilderment,  that  told  him  he  must  be  a  man 
now,  and  not  the  lovesick  youth,  or  the  trifler  with  all 
this  easy  popularity  he  had  among  all  sorts  of  people. 


PIGS   AND   POLtnCS  rJi 

He  recalled  curiously  now  how  his  mother  had  always 
contrived  that  he  spend  his  time  with  the  right  sort  of 
people ;  how  he  was  so  thoroughly  of  the  gracious  life 
of  this  kind  of  people.  East  or  West,  somehow,  these 
best  homes  opened  to  him ;  everything  good  came  with 
out  effort,  without  cost.  Yet  he  would  have  been 
surprised  to  believe  he  was  anything  else  but  a  demo 
crat — a  young  man  of  the  easy,  full-lived,  tolerant 
American  democracy — the  sort  of  fellow  who  calls  on 
one's  daughters,  and  whom  one's  daughters  marry 
when  he  has  made  enough  in  the  business  or  become  a 
junior  partner  of  the  firm.  East  or  West,  he  was  the 
same  clean  clear-minded  chap  of  family  and  money. 
To  get  on  in  the  world  meant  no  particular  struggle ; 
merely  common  sense  and  industry,  and  cultivating  the 
right  sort  of  people,  and  taking  easy  advantage  of  the 
opportunities  that  one's  position  gives  one.  His  father 
was  that  sort  of  man  exactly.  All  the  county  accepted 
him  as  a  type  of  the  sturdy  democratizing  citizen ;  and 
Harlan  looked  out  on  the  people  reciprocally, — brown, 
kind,  true-hearted  people,  unconscious,  unafraid,  un- 
indebted,  their  wallets  filled.  He  remembered  once 
traveling  with  Elise  Dickinson,  and  the  grocer's  daugh 
ter  had  been  ashamed  of  a  country  uncle  who  took  out 
a  paper  shoe-box  of  lunch  and  ate  fried  chicken  and 
pickles  on  the  seat  of  the  coach.  Harlan  had  resented 
Elise's  feeling.  He  had  no  country  relations,  but  he 
felt  a  stout  kinship  with  all  this  prosy,  common,  whole 
some  living.  They  were  his  home  people,  these  Mid- 
landers,  the  best  of  Americans.  Certainly  he  was  a 
democrat,  as  his  father  was,  without  struggle,  without 
cost,  without  having  to  soil  his  hands  at  anything,  or 


102  THE   MIDLANDERS 

assume  obligation.     If  one  had  accused  him  of  class- 
consciousness  he  would  not  have  taken  one  seriously. 

His  father  and  mother  had  no  comment  when  he  ap 
peared  dressed  for  dinner.  Mrs.  Van  Hart  smiled;  it 
was  such  a  likable  following  of  the  judge's  habits.  The 
affair  of  last  night  had  been  put  by ;  they  had  had  it  out 
after  the  party,  and  Harlan  had  listened  in  silence. 
Their  hopes  of  him,  their  pride  in  him ;  all  they  had 
built  and  lived  and  dreamed  for  him — they  knew  he 
would  not  throw  it  away.  He  had  listened,  then  he  had 
arisen  and  said  simply:  "Mother,  I'm  going  back  to 
school  to-morrow.  Can't  you  trust  me  in  this  affair — 
Aurelie  Lindstrom — as  you  can  in  everything?" 
And  the  mother  had  answered  proudly,  "Yes." 
To-night  at  dinner  he  felt  his  father's  kindly  eyes 
on  him;  his  mother's  affectionate  welcome  was  un 
changed.  The  matter  was  not  mentioned  again.  He 
knew  it  would  not  be.  Yes,  they  trusted  him — so  loy 
ally,  so  splendidly,  they  trusted  him!  They  placed  on 
him  the  unspoken  but  inescapable  heritage  they  had 
received.  He  would  wrong  it  in  no  way.  Mrs.  Van 
Hart  had  summed  it  up  to  the  judge  alone  last  night. 
"Harlan  would  not  marry  an  impossible  girl  any  more 
than  you  would,  dear — or  your  father,  or  your  father's 
father.  It  was  one  of  those  chivalrous  madnesses  of 
youth ;  and  the  girl  is  pretty.  I  was  so  sorry  for  her ! 
And  this  ridiculous  newspaper  prize-winning!  It  was 
mercifully  fortunate  after  all.  If  anything  could  cut 
Harlan  to  the  quick  it  would  be  cheapness  and  vul 
garity  and  notoriety.  An  infatuation  might  blind  him 
to  her  social  ineptitude — but  this  beauty-prize  absurd 
ity — nothing  could  have  been  better  to  break  the  boy's 


PIGS   AND   POLITICS  103 

Arcadian  romance.  Indeed,  we  got  out  of  it  with  amus 
ing  ease." 

The  judge  had  sighed.  He  had,  it  seemed,  discovered 
in  this  son  some  of  the  inner  steel  that  the  mother 
possessed  clothed  in  her  gracious  authority.  He  had 
been  aware  of  Harlan's  questionings  for  a  year  or  so  in 
matters  that  did  not  come  clearly  in  the  mother's  view ; 
of  a  mind  grasping  with  dogged  slowness  but  merciless 
tenacity  at  altered  standards. 

He  stopped  now  to  banter  his  son  over  the  soup, 
trying  to  assume  their  old  fraternity  of  common  views. 
What  did  Harlan  expect  to  live  on  next  year  when  he 
hung  his  shingle  out? 

"Perhaps  I'll  follow  Billy  Lee's  example,"  badgered 
Harlan.  "Specialize  in  irrigation  law  and  go  out  to 
Arizona  and  hustle." 

The  mother  smiled  at  this  gay  dissembling.  A  Van 
Hart  having  to  "hustle"  was  unthinkable.  The  judge 
went  on :  "By  sleeping  on  the  office  couch  and  taking 
your  meals  at  the  Gem — Chicago  style — as  it  adver 
tises — you  can  probably  pull  through  and  pay  for  your 
gas  and  janitor." 

"I'm  going  to  give  Harlan  his  first  case."  Mrs.  Van 
Hart  smiled.  "He  can  go  before  the  county  board  and 
argue  for  the  Sinsinawa  Creek  diversion.  Taylor  says 
we  could  sell  our  north  eighty  if  the  creek  was  dammed 
above  the  quarry." 

"Mother,  that's  a  matter  of  politics  and  not  law." 

The  judge  looked  curiously  at  the  son.  The  assur 
ance  of  a  man  was  in  him.  Harlan  went  on :  "There's 
a  lot  of  grumbling  over  the  road  contracts  Tanner  gets 
out  of  the  board  with  Dan  Boydston  chairman.  And 


104  THE    MIDLANDERS 

now  the  farmers  are  saying  that  the  county  is  going 
to  spend  thousands  of  dollars  to  divert  the  creek  just  at 
the  point  where  it  won't  do  anybody  any  good  except 
Tanner  and  Cal  Rice  and  Dickinson  and — well — us, 
you  know." 

"The  farmers?"  the  judge's  gentle  interrogation 
came. 

"Old  Jake  Vance  was  saying.    And  Wiley — " 

His  father  frowned.  The  mother's  amused  smile 
came.  The  News  editor  was  an  "impossible  person" 
who  was  to  be  seen  carrying  his  exchanges  from  the 
post-office,  in  shirt-sleeves  and  a  derby  hat  much  too 
small  for  his  head. 

"Wiley  says  it's  a  great  scheme  of  Thad's  to  get  the 
county  to  protect  his  property  from  the  spring  floods 
and  the  county  pays  him  for  doing  it!" 

The  judge  was  plainly  annoyed. 

"Your  friend,  Wiley  Curran,  seems  the  self-ap 
pointed  watch-dog  of  county  affairs." 

"He  and  Mr.  Tanner  are  always  after  each  other. 
But  that's  why  I  said  the  creek  diversion  will  be  a  mat 
ter  of  politics.  There's  sure  to  be  a  howl  raised  about 
it,  dad." 

The  judge  selected  a  cigar.  The  mother  nodded 
covertly  to  him. 

"Harlan,  dear,  you  admit  the  creek  ought  to  be  di 
verted?" 

"Why,  yes.  And  it'll  be  a  good  thing  for  us,  mother. 
It'll  put  all  our  north  tract  on  the  market  drained." 

The  judge's  frown  came  again.  "That  has  nothing 
to  do  with  it,  my  boy.  The  natural  bed  of  the  creek 
ia  down  the  old  Pocket  where  those  squatters1  shanties 


PIGS    AND    POLITICS  105 

are.  The  quarry  gang  beyond  Lindstrom's — "  He 
paused,  for  he  had  not  intended  to  advert  to  the  name 
— Lindstrom,  the  discard,  he  had  sent  to  jail ;  Aurelie's 
foster-father. 

There  was  a  silence.  Harlan  looked  up  to  see  his 
father's  eyes  averted.  He  had  an  idea  the  judge  was 
suffering.  His  mother  shrugged.  "My  dear,  the 
Pocket  is  no  man's  land — the  river  made  it  years  ago, 
and  it's  the  natural  bed  of  the  creek.  Those  people 
haven't  a  sign  of  title !" 

"I  know,"  the  son  retorted.    "Wiley  told  me." 

"I  wish,  my  boy,  you  didn't  get  so  much  of  your 
knowledge  of  county  affairs  through  Mr.  Curran!" 
The  judge  watched  him  curiously.  "Did  you  see  his 
scandalous  editorial  on  the  supreme  court's  decision  in 
the  labor  injunction  case?" 

"Yes.  That  labor  organizer  from  Earlville,  Mc- 
Bride — got  Wiley  excited  about  it.  It  would  smash  the 
union  movement,  Wiley  said." 

The  judge  sighed.  For  the  first  time  he  had  seen  a 
flash  of  Harlan's  old  cheerful  eagerness — and  it  took 
Wiley  Curran's  insurgency  to  bring  it.  "This  man, 
McBride,  is  organizing  the  soft  coal  miners  on  the  up 
per  creek — all  those  foreigners  that  were  brought  in 
there.  And  he  denounced  Congressman  Hall  last  Sun 
day  at  the  Earlville  Turn  Verein  meeting,  I  hear." 

"They're  after  Hall,  father— hard.  Old  Jake  Vance 
says  that  Wiley  Curran  ought  to  run  against  him — he 
says  the  governor's  crowd  will  get  behind  any  one  to 
beat  Hall." 

The  judge  laughed.  "Wiley  Curran  in  congress? 
Harlan,  I  saw  him  last  week  down  on  his  knees  dig- 


io6  THE   MIDLANDERS 

ging  up  geraniums  for  that  funny  old  lady  who  keeps 
house  for  him — they  were  throwing  cupfuls  of  earth  at 
each  other  and  shouting  like  children !" 

Harlan  smiled.  "I  suppose !  But,  dad,  this  political 
move  is  getting  big.  Jake  Vance  says  it's  the  young 
men's  movement.  Look  at  the  chaps  like  his  boy,  Arne, 
who's  come  back  from  the  agricultural  school  chuck- 
a-block  with  what  he  calls  the  Wisconsin  idea.  And 
see  how  Governor  Delroy  won  on  it — he's  the  young 
men's  governor." 

"The  state,"  retorted  the  judge  dryly,  "is  in  an  up 
roar  over  nothing.  When  this  Wisconsin  senator  got 
up  to  speak  at  the  last  session  the  solid  and  representa 
tive  men  simply  would  not  listen — he  talked  to  their 
empty  seats.  A  demagogue,  a  disturber — and  as  for 
Jake  Vance,  he  has  been  the  county's  original  malcon 
tent  since  granger  days  and  Greenbackism." 

The  young  man  listened  quietly.  "Father,  his  son 
is  different.  You  ought  to  see  how  earnest  he  is.  A 
student-farmer  come  back  from  Wisconsin  whooping 
it  up  for  the  initiative  and  recall,  and  direct  elections, 
out  in  his  father's  locality  among  the  old  mossbacks — - 
and  showing  'em  how  to  raise  better  corn  than  they 
ever  did  before !  Pigs  and  politics — Arne  says !" 

"I,"  smiled  the  judge,  "am  still  for  the  Constitution 
— and  my  boy,  I'm  glad  you  went  to  Harvard  in 
stead  of  our  western  colleges.  If  you're  going  into 
politics — "  he  grimaced,  for  politics  was  distasteful  to 
him,  and  yet  Harlan  had  grown  up  with  the  conscious 
ness  that  some  day  he  should  enter  politics.  His 
mother's  ancestry  of  Virginia  had  given  it  to  him  as 
the  milk  he  drew.  It  had  been  the  one  grievance  of 


PIGS   AND    POLITICS  107 

her  married  life  that  the  judge  had  not  cared  for  a 
more  militant  public  life.  She  had  an  old-fashioned 
ideal  for  her  boy's  future — she  was  not  sure  of  it  all, 
but  it  was  to  be  a  career  honoring  the  state,  reaching 
up,  perhaps,  well — one  could  never  tell  how  far  such  a 
son  might  go,  one  who  had  the  best  of  East  and  West 
in  him.  Despite  their  tradition  the  Van  Harts  felt  the 
Midlands  to  be  the  heart  and  soul  of  the  republic,  the 
seat  of  power  and  inspiration.  Loyal  to  every  inch  of 
the  Atlantic  seaboard,  they  knew  the  mighty  valley 
would  home  the  millions  of  the  best  Americans,  here 
would  be  the  breed  of  the  soil,  the  determining  econom- 
ism,  the  building  and  enduring  individualism. 

The  mother  glanced  brightly  at  him.  "Of  course 
Harlan's  going  into  politics  !  And  he'll  never  have  the 
struggle  that  Billy  Lee  will  have.  Here,  among  his 
own  people — "  she  dreamed  an  instant,  her  eyes  going 
out  to  the  encircling  hills — "Harlan,  dear — there's  no 
limit  to  what  I  sec  for  you.  Oh,  we  want  you  to  go  on, 
boy — always  on  to  the  best  and  highest!"  She  arose 
in  her  eagerness  and  came  to  him,  parted  the  fair  hair 
from  his  brow  and  kissed  him.  "Dear  boy,  won't  you 
thank  us  a  little  bit — down  in  your  heart — for  saving 
you!" 

He  was  still.  But  his  arm  stole  about  her  slender 
waist.  Her  smooth  cheek  under  the  silvery  hair,  which 
had  a  girlish  trick  of  coming  down  before  her  ears, 
was  against  his  own.  After  all  she  was  "the  best  of 
mothers,"  as  he  had  told  Aurelie.  Always  about  him 
this  gracious  care,  this  ennobling  presence,  this  exalt 
ing  standard  of  life.  Always  this  warm,  serene,  home- 
guarding — all  that  was  best. 


io8  THE   MIDLANDERS 

He  kissed  her  in  their  old  comradeship  of  mother 
and  son  between  whom  nothing  could  come.  "Mother, 
dear — "  he  answered  slowly,  "I  know !  Oh,  it's  been  a 
battle,  but  I  know !"  And  he  looked  up  to  see  now  his 
father's  patient  eyes  shining  upon  them.  Yes,  they 
had  lived  only  for  him — they  lived  for  him  now. 

When  he  went  out  later,  they  watched  him  swing 
across-  the  lawn  and  down  High  Street  in  the  un 
broken  spirit  of  youth,  a  noble  sunniness,  a  clear  free 
dom  about  him.  They  had  given  him  to  the  land,  the 
best  that  the  land  could  offer.  They  watched  him  go 
in  a  pride  that  was  a  gratefulness  to  God. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   TRAMP   OF   THE   YOUNG   MEN 

MR.  CURRAN  was  in  his  office  working  on  a  rush 
job  for  the  Gem  Restaurant  whose  illumination 
across  the  Square,  "Home  Cooking — Chicago  Style," 
was  in  his  eyes  as  he  kicked  the  old  press  treadle,  when 
Harlan  came  in.  Harlan  had  not  intended  to  see 
Wiley  again,  so  deep  was  his  hurt  and  humiliation,  but 
when  he  crossed  the  Square  and  heard  the  clankety- 
clank  of  the  News  job  department,  he  could  not  resist 
old  faiths  and  ardors.  Wiley,  too,  would  be  hurt  if 
Harlan  departed  without  a  word.  So  it  seemed  the 
most  natural  thing  to  lounge  in,  sink  down  in  the  ed 
itor's  chair,  while  the  editor  held  up  his  inky  hands  a 
minute  to  wave  them  cheerily. 

And  always  it  was  something  like  this:  "Hello, 
Harlan!" 

"Hello,  Wiley !" 

"Were  you  down  at  the  Junction  for  the  seven-ten 
this  evening?" 

"Yes." 

"Who  came  in?" 

"Old  Lady  Hicks  and  that  Sheasby  girl— from  Ot- 
tumwa,  Billy  said." 

"Hash  'em  up  for  the  local.  Give  Old  Lady  Hicks  a 
109 


i  io  THE    MIDLANDERS 

real  snifter — her  subscription  is  about  out  and  I  want 
a  renewal." 

So  Harlan  reached  for  some  copy  paper  and 
scrawled  the  items,  and  looked  over  the  stuff  on  the 
local  hook. 

"  'News  Notes'  will  be  rotten  this  week.  The  brake- 
man  on  Ten  said  his  wife  had  a  baby." 

"Shove  it  in." 

"I  don't  know  his  name." 

"Shove  it  in  anyhow.  Splash  it  on  thick — jolly  him 
about  the  cigars  and  Number  Ten,  and  let  folks  guess 
who  it  is." 

So  Harlan  scrawled  on  while  the  editor  rehearsed  all 
the  news  he  could  think  of.  "Tear  up  some  editorial 
dope — local  option.  Saloon  must  be  kept  from  our 
midst.  .  .  .  Home  and  Fireside.  .  .  .  Remem 
ber  Our  Boys.  .  .  .  Outlaw  the  Unholy  Traffic. 
..."  murmured  Wiley  above  the  clankety-clank. 

Now,  Mr.  Curran  had  no  boys,  and  the  unholy  traf 
fic  had  piled  beer  bottles  so  high  behind  the  News  fence 
that  wagons  could  barely  pass ;  and  his  Home  and  Fire 
side  consisted  of  one  rotund  old  lady  who  had  followed 
his  haphazard  fortunes  from  Puget  Sound  to  the  Rio 
Grande  and  back  to  the  old  town,  but  nevertheless, 
Harlan  patiently  denounced  the  traffic  for  a  stickful. 

"There'll  be,"  mused  the  editor,  "Banbury  tarts  and 
coffee  in  a  minute  when  Aunt  Abby  comes  from  prayer- 
meeting.  Arne  and  Janet  will  drop  in — it'll  be  a  fare 
well  spree  for  you,  old  boy.  I'm  glad  we  had  you  last, 
after  all." 

This  was  rare  comforting.  Harlan  had  wanted  to 
be  distant  to  Wiley,  but  one  couldn't.  Even  Aunt 


THE  TRAMP  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN  in 

Abby  couldn't,  and  she  ought  to  know  his  worst.  He 
was  a  man,  like  many  a  bachelor,  who  sought  the 
mothering  stimulus  of  elder  women.  He  was  his  gay 
est  and  his  best  with  them.  Aunt  Abby  had  followed 
all  the  later  years  of  his  wandering;  had  homesteaded 
with  him  under  the  gray  low-hanging  skies  of  the  Da 
kota  winters ;  she  remembered  the  ceaseless  winds  and 
sands  of  Nevada  where  he  had  prospected,  and  the  dim 
buttes  of  the  Southwest  where  they  had  slept  under  the 
stars  in  lonely  cow  camps.  Always  she  had  saved  him 
from  sheer  vagabondia,  given  the  respectability  of 
motherhood  to  his  vagaries,  defended  him  against  town 
gossip ;  was  proud  of  him  against  all  the  world.  "That 
limb,  Wiley  T."  he  was  to  her  lonely  need  of  love. 

"Janet,"  mused  Wiley,  "and  Arne — and  you — that's 
about  all  there's  been  to  the  old  town  for  me.  It's 
been  lonely  here,  Harlan — and  I'm  a  bit  gray  around 
the  temples.  You  three  have  made  the  town  more 
green  and  fair  and  livable." 

His  eye  had  an  unwonted  sparkle  to-day  as  he 
worked.  Presently  a  smart  team  drew  to  the  door, 
and  by  way  of  welcome,  with  his  hail,  the  editor  hurled 
a  begrimed  newspaper  directory  at  the  newcomer's 
feet.  A  tall,  swarthy-cheeked  young  man  with  the  air 
of  the  fields  upon  him,  followed  Miss  Vance  into  the 
shop.  The  woman  superintendent  of  schools  listened 
to  her  brother's  exuberant  chaffing  of  the  others  for 
a  moment ;  she  seemed  mentally  taking  stock  of  the 
place — Curran  wiping  his  hands  on  an  empurpled 
towel,  Harlan  impaling  copy  on  the  hook ;  the  general 
ne'er-do-well  atmosphere  of  the  Rome,  Iowa,  News. 

"Tarts,"  said  the  editor,  "and  coffee.     Maybe  beer. 


H2  THE   MIDLANDERS 

Who  likes  beer  ?  Nobody.  It's  unlawful.  But  there's 
a  case  under  Aunt  Abby's  bed,  and  the  good  old  lady, 
all  unsuspecting,  is  at  prayer-meeting." 

"We've  dined,"  rejoined  Miss  Vance,  "keep  on  with 
your  work." 

Mr.  Curran  was  noted  for  his  pretexts  to  evade 
work, — which  explained  a  deal  about  the  News'  circu 
lation.  Miss  Vance  sat  down  in  the  swivel  chair  at  the 
editor's  desk  which  Harlan  had  vacated.  She  was 
tailored  far  beyond  Rome's  possibilities  even  if  Sarah 
Coyne,  the  dressmaker,  had,  since  a  recent  trip  to  Chi 
cago,  changed  the  legend  on  her  shop-window  to 
"Modiste".  Tailored  and  groomed,  thirty,  aggressive, 
keen,  reserved — the  county  said  it  was  not  for  nothing 
she  was  daughter  of  Jake  Vance,  the  political  farmer. 
Janet  was  accredited  to  be  the  most  effective  cam 
paigner  in  the  court-house ;  she  had  been  elected  to  her 
second  term  by  a  splendid  majority  after  having  car 
ried  her  first  election  to  the  courts.  The  old-line  party 
men  had  not  wanted  her,  but  they  had  had  to  accept  a 
woman  school  superintendent.  She  looked  Harlan 
over  with  critical  interest;  Mrs.  Van  Hart  and  High 
Street  had  not  given  her  much  support. 

Arne  was  poking  among  Wiley's  exchanges,  snorting 
militantly  now  and  then.  He  was  on  his  way  back  to 
the  agricultural  school  in  Wisconsin,  where  he  ab 
sorbed  as  much  radical  politics  as  soil  culture.  Out  of 
his  pockets  now  bulged  a  great  yellow  ear  of  prize 
corn  and  a  bundle  of  congressional  speeches.  Jake 
Vance,  arguing  about  the  Square  on  market  days  in  his 
old,  moth-eaten,  buffalo  coat,  expounding  his  heresies 
to  the  farmers,  was  proud  of  his  two  children.  Country- 


THE  TRAMP  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN  113 

bred,  there  was  no  "hayseed"  about  them.  Out  at 
Cloverland  farm  they  had  a  telephone,  a  piano  player, 
a  motor  that  did  nearly  everything  about  the  house  and 
stables,  and  all  the  newfangled  devices ;  and  the  doubt 
ing  farmers  always  stopped  to  see  what  next  the 
Vances  were  up  to. 

"While  we're  all  here,"  put  in  Wiley,  "let's  talk  over 
the  Christmas  number  of  our  magazine  so's  we  can  get 
it  out  by  April.  It's  really  due  to  our  subscriber." 

Miss  Vance  looked  at  him.  "Wiley,"  she  said  de 
cisively,  "I'm  going  to  sell  The  Inland  Empire." 

Mr.  Curran  feigned  distress  and  amazement.  "Sell 
it?  Why,  you  can't — I'm  president! 

"Besides,"  he  went  on  riotously,  "we've  got  a  new 
subscriber.  I  was  afraid  our  other  one  would  die. 
The  Gem — Chicago  Style.  Since  Sallie  Frisby  came 
back  from  the  city  she  says  it's  a  shame  this  town  has 
no  place  where  one  can  go  after  the  theater,  so  she's 
going  to  keep  the  Gem  open  until  ten  o'clock  if  there's 
not  a  soul  in  the  place.  She's  going  to  give  Rome  a 
touch  of  high  life,  and  on  that  aspiration  I  got  her  to 
subscribe  to  The  Inland  Empire — if  we  give  her  a 
write-up.  Also,  we  take  it  out  in  trade.  By  jove,  I 
jumped  at  it — The  Inland  Empire  does  need  a  square 
meal!" 

Miss  Vance  looked  at  him  in  some  despair.  "Never 
theless,  we're  going  to  sell  the  magazine — to  a  Des 
Moines  chap  who  wants  to  turn  it  into  a  farm  journal." 

Mr.  Curran  looked  doleful.  It  is  true  he  was  presi 
dent  of  the  corporation,  but  most  of  Miss  Vance's  sal 
ary  had  gone  of  late  to  get  The  Inland  Empire  out  of 
the  Ear!vill§  printohop,  Wiley  ha4  long  since  ex- 


U4  THE   MIDLANDERS 

hausted  his  eloquence  and  his  credit.  Mr.  Curran's 
touch  seemed  as  irresponsibly  fatal  to  this  grand  scheme 
as  it  had  to  the  News'  circulation.  Janet  had  had  great 
dreams  of  The  Empire.  She  had  wanted  expression 
and  achievement  beyond  the  routine  of  her  work ;  she 
had  thought  to  touch  the  world,  its  letters,  crafts, 
movements  with  her  own  convictions  ;  they  would  build 
their  magazine  slowly  to  success,  aspiring  high  but  yet 
keeping  to  the  good  earth,  with  departments  for  the 
home,  the  farm  and  countryside,  while  battling  for  the 
militant  political  ideals  of  the  West.  It  would  mean 
the  sweetness  of  power  and  freedom — now  she  won 
dered  how  her  own  practical  mind  could  ever  have 
supposed  it  would  succeed  with  Mr.  Curran  at  its  busi 
ness  head. 

"Wiley,"  she  said  severely,  "I  shall  sell  it." 

"You  had  better,"  he  murmured  again  dismally, 
"consult  our  stockholders." 

Arne  and  Harlan  shouted  irrepressibly.  "Go  ahead," 
cried  Harlan.  "I'll  donate  mine.  I'm  too  busy  this 
year  to  furnish  any  more  'Boston  Notes',  and  the  ath 
letic  resume,  anyway.  I  move  we  go  down  to  the  Gem, 
eat  out  that  dollar  subscription  and  then  suspend  pub 
lication  at  once." 

"Harlan,"  retorted  the  superintendent,  "Wiley  is  de 
moralizing  you.  I'm  glad  you're  going  back  to  Har 
vard." 

Her  brother  looked  with  some  frank  resentment  on 
the  immaculate  young  man.  The  lean-faced  student- 
farmer  from  Wisconsin  had  the  dyspeptic  diathesis  of 
the  reformer.  The  genial  ease  of  breeding  in  the 
judge's  son  galled  him  at  times,  even  as  did  Curran's 


THE  TRAMP  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN  115 

whimsical  impracticality.  Arne's  black  eyes  went 
about  the  old  shop  with  impatient  envy,  the  old  Wash 
ington  press,  the  stack  of  frayed  ink  rollers,  the  high 
wooden  cases  of  type  stained  and  whittled  by  genera 
tions  of  wandering  printers ;  the  ramshackly  desk  piled 
with  yellowing  and  dusty  papers,  gummy  with  paste 
and  inky  accretions  except  in  the  one  spot  where  the 
editor  was  wont  to  push  everything  aside  to  find  a  writ 
ing  space — the  student-farmer,  burning  with  his  fiery 
zeal,  saw  in  it  all  power — power  unused,  dissipated, 
perverted.  He  was  forever  urging  Wiley  to  further 
radicalism;  and  Wiley  at  his  best  was  irresponsible 
enough.  The  Vances  and  the  News  had  been  united 
from  the  first  by  common  sentiment;  from  this  same 
old  desk,  Jake  Vance  in  war-time  days  had  lifted  the 
body  of  the  elder  Curran,  helpless  with  a  copperhead 
bullet,  and  defied  the  mob;  and  in  the  years  of  the 
granger  movements  the  News  had  supported  Vance  in 
repeated  hopeless  battles  for  congress.  Arne  had 
grown  up  in  this  demagogic  ferment  of  vast  ideas ;  he 
had  come  back  from  his  "cow  college"  quick  with  a 
sense  of  revolt,  an  impatience  to  hurry  his  conservative 
county  of  the  Reserve  into  the  "young  men's  move 
ment"  of  the  party. 

"Harvard,"  he  growled,  and  then,  conscious  of  his 
intolerance,  added :  "Oh,  well — that's  all  right.  Har- 
lan'll  drop  all  that  Bostonese  accent  when  he  gets  back 
to  practise  here  a  year  or  two.  And  he'll  be  with  us  on 
the  band  wagon  when  we  get  this  county  organized  to 
dump  the  old  gang.  He'll  forget  he's  Judge  Van 
Hart's  son,  and  a  nephew  of  Senator  Fairchild  and  a — 
a  Geek!" 


n6  THE    MIDLANDERS 

Again  they  smiled  at  Arne's  heat.  He  and  Harlan 
had  played  on  the  same  football  team  in  high  school, 
and  the  lean  farm  boy  had  been  the  sensation  of  the 
state  athletic  association.  But  though  one  may  rip  up 
the  invading  lines  and  score  the  championship  touch 
downs  and  be  borne  from  the  field  smothering  in  rib 
bons  and  have  to  face,  tongue-tied,  the  clapping  of  all 
the  pretty  hands  in  school  at  the  annual  association 
banquet,  yet  when  all's  said  and  done,  to  be  a  "Geek" 
and  call  on  all  those  girls  who  flutter  summer  evenings 
in  and  out  of  the  Van  Hart  gate  is  a  much  greater 
thing.  Which  is  reasonable  and  proper  and  according 
to  the  light  of  the  Best  People  in  many  places  East  and 
West  other  than  Rome,  Iowa. 

''Oh,  Harlan's  all  right,"  repeated  Arne,  "and  so  are 
these  other  people  along  High  Street.  So  is  that 
copper  Indian  over  on  the  Square — he's  marking  the 
spot  where  something  once  happened.  In  Earlville 
they're  laughing  at  our  row  over  Sin  Creek.  Every 
time  a  freshet  comes,  what  happens?  Some  of  our 
prominent  citizens  wake  up  in  the  morning  and  find 
their  lawns  strewn  with  drowned  socks  and  busted 
stovepipes  and  brass  collar  buttons  that  Sin  Creek  has 
swept  down  on  us  from  the  garbage  heaps  of  Earlville. 
Then  they  roar  and  talk  creek  diversion,  but  nothing 
was  ever  done  until  they  made  it  a  county  steal  with 
Old  Thad  Tanner  getting  the  rake-off.  Then,  being 
regular,  the  best  families  agreed  to  it." 

Sinsinawa  had  been  a  scandal  immemorially,  every 
body  knew.  But  then  everybody  loved  Sinsinawa,  and 
Rome  without  the  wanton  singing  down  a  dozen  chan 
nels  from  the  bluff  would  not  have  been  Rome.  One 


THE  TRAMP  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN  117 

could  put  up  with  a  vulgar  collar  button  washed  down 
now  and  then  from  the  alleys  of  Earlville. 

Wiley  Curran  sighed  as  he  watched  the  copper  In 
dian  across  the  Square,  Chief  Winnesaqua,  who  ruled 
the  land  when  squirrels  gamboled  over  the  site  of 
Rome.  They  were  still  gamboling  over  the  old  town, 
while  Earlville  had  built  its  Hotel  Metropole  with  Eng 
lish  steeplechase  scenes  around  the  dining-room  wain 
scot.  Rome  had  had  Miss  Amelia  Parsons  of  the  Par 
sons  House,  and  her  one  o'clock  Sunday  dinner,  with 
chicken,  since  1856.  Earlville  had  its  Elk's  club  done 
with  a  brownstone  front.  Rome  had  its  Shakespeare 
club  which  met  Thursdays  at  the  ladies'  homes.  Earl 
ville  had  its  syndicate  theater  in  cream  brick ;  Rome  had 
its  opera-house  sheathed  in  tin  imitation  of  sandstone 
— and  peeling  off.  Earlville — but  why  rehearse  ?  There 
is  the  Carnegie  library,  the  Young  Men's  Christian  As 
sociation,  the  Federal  building,  the  paid  fire  depart 
ment,  the  interurban,  the  home  of  Congressman  Hall, 
which,  like  all  the  homes  of  great  men  in  the  West,  was 
spiked  with  the  militant  decoration  of  a  German  cake — 
the  east  addition,  and  the  factory  district. 

Rome  had  none  of  these.  In  lieu  of  town  plats  it 
had  an  imperial  isolation.  WThen  the  Earlville  boost 
ers,  in  train,  went  up  the  valley,  to  serenade  other  com 
munities  and  parade  in  silk  hats  and  white  flannel 
trousers,  Rome  was  usually  entertaining  district  dele 
gates  to  the  Baptist  Young  People's  Association ;  and 
when  a  girl  "show"  struck  Earlville  direct  from  two 
hundred  nights  in  Chicago,  Rome's  tin  opera-house 
was  invariably  given  over  to  Flint,  the  Hypnotist,  the 
Swiss  Bell  Ringers,  or  the  Chautauqua  Quartette. 


n8  THE    MIDLANDERS 

Mr.  Curran  accepted  tickets  to  these  on  advertising1, 
and  sat  gloomily  all  through.  After  all,  Mr.  Curran 
was  a  loyal  citizen.  Even  though  he  did  print  the  story 
of  the  drummer  who  related  that  Miss  Amelia  Par 
sons  of  the  Parsons  House  insisted  on  his  sleeping 
with  brown  papers  under  his  ears,  lest  the  pillows  be 
come  soiled  too  soon  after  the  Saturday  change. 

Of  course  he  lost  advertising.  But  Mr.  Curran  had 
an  unhappy  mania  for  printing  things  that  lost  ad 
vertising.  Even  now,  Miss  Vance,  looking  with  patient 
eyes  at  the  three — Harlan,  fair-skinned,  resolute,  seri 
ous,  his  large-boned  frame  carrying,  at  twenty-one,  a 
man's  dignity;  her  brother  Arne,  soil-burned,  Indian- 
cheeked,  nervous,  lean,  a  Lincolnian  awkwardness 
about  his  clothes ;  and  then  Wiley  with  his  young-old 
eyes,  the  close  brown  beard  lending  him,  in  Rome,  an 
inescapable  foreign  air — felt  Mr.  Curran's  perennial 
failure. 

At  eighteen,  when  she  taught  her  first  school,  she 
supposed  that  Wiley  would  ask  her  to  marry  him,  but 
he  had  gone  off  on  footless  wanderings.  Twelve  years 
later  he  came  back,  a  trifle  stouter,  a  bit  sad,  still  mis 
chievous,  the  many-sided  friend,  but  not  the  lover.  She 
had  gone  on  to  a  successful  and  widening  career;  she 
had  developed  a  personality,  made  a  place  ;  but  Wiley — 
well,  Wiley  had  become  "Curran  of  the  News."  Even 
now  Harlan  Van  Hart,  many  years  the  younger,  was 
fitting  himself  for  his  father's  honored  footsteps ;  Arne 
was  enthusiastically  putting  in  his  great  schemes  for 
soil-sweetening,  lecturing  to  farmers'  institutes,  and 
dabbling  in  county  politics ;  but  Wiley  had  marked 
time. 


THE  TRAMP  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN  119 

She  was  too  sane,  too  finely  schooled  to  linger  over 
sentimental  regrets  because  of  Wiley  or  herself.  Only, 
as  a  wife,  and  a  wife  of  a  man  of  affairs,  she  saw  one 
path  to  the  larger  life  she  longed  for.  She  had  the  in 
stinctive  political  predilections  of  her  family ;  the  man 
she  should  marry  must  bulk  up  with  the  county  men  at 
least.  Arne,  back  from  His  eager  drinking  of  economic 
revolt  at  the  most  radical  college  of  the  West,  was  al 
ready  listened  to,  but  Wiley's  paper — well,  it  was  only 
the  News  barking  away  as  it  had  done  since  abolition 
days !  The  county  was  used  to  that. 

Yet  Janet  had  a  peculiar  sense  of  his  closeness  to  all 
that  prosy  life  of  the  countryside.  Never  a  losing 
grievance  of  the  farmers  for  which  the  News  did  not 
contend  ;  never  a  day  but  what,  in  and  out  of  the  shabby 
old  shop,  some  shy  countryman  did  not  stray  to  relate 
the  district  news,  to  ask  a  favor  or  confirm  some  rumor. 
Curran  had  inherited  all  this,  and  curiously,  with  all 
his  dilettante  indrawing  and  worldly  sophistication,  had 
delighted  in  it.  In  her  drivings  to  lonely  districts  on 
school  visits  the  lady  superintendent  found  this  insist 
ent  interest :  "The  News  editor,"  what  was  he  doing 
or  saying? 

When  she  related  this,  Curran  had  laughed  care 
lessly;  just  as  he  laughed  when  Janet  had  urged  him 
to  run  for  congress ;  just  as  he  had  laughed,  running 
his  blued  fingers  ruefully  through  his  hair,  when  she 
asked  of  his  plans  for  the  abortive  Inland  Empire. 
Miss  Vance,  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Curran,  usually  con 
cluded  by  going  on  and  disregarding  him. 

"I  suppose/'  he  put  in  now,  on  Arne's  never-ending 
satire  of  county  affairs,  "I'll  have  to  shag  along  with 


120  THE   MIDLANDERS 

the  old  town  alone.  You  boys  off  to  college,  and  Janet 
visiting  the  district  schools.  Christmas — who'll  be  home 
Christmas?"  He  appealed  to  Harlan  ingenuously. 

"June  for  me.  I'll  run  down  to  Washington  for 
Christmas  at  the  senator's." 

Wiley  slowly  considered.  Senator  Fairchild,  cousin 
of  Mrs.  Van  Hart,  one-time  cabinet  officer,  intimate  of 
the  president,  most  powerful  figure  from  the  West  at 
Washington.  Surely,  for  a  country  judge's  son,  the 
mere  relating  of  dinner  at  Fairchild's  bespoke  a  flatter 
ing  future.  Harlan  was,  indeed,  the  son  of  fortune. 

But  again  Arne  growled.  Fairchild  was  the  red  rag 
in  the  faces  of  the  state's  political  rebels ;  he  was  one 
with  the  gigantic  financial  interests  that  dominated  his 
party.  Already  his  reelection  was  bitterly  opposed. 

"Eat  that  dinner,  son,"  roared  the  farmer-student. 
"It'll  be  the  last  one  for  that  old  cuss  as  a  senator !  The 
governor's  crowd'll  get  him !  I  tell  you  you  fellows 
ought  to  get  an  ear  to  the  ground.  Here  Wiley  sits  in 
his  old  shop  kicking  off  a  four-dollar  job  for  the  Gem 
Restaurant  when  he  ought  to  be  out  among  the  people. 
Here's  Harlan  getting  through  law  and  then  hanging 
out  for  some  picayune  case  Old  Thad  Tanner  throws 
him  to  keep  him  lined  up  with  the  old  guard.  In  a  few 
years  he'll  be  fat  and  married,  driving  a  car  around 
town,  never  a  hair  sweated  and — respectable!  Oh, 
lord  !" — Arne  smote  his  hard  fists  together — "never  a 
rough  and  tumble  fight  in  your  life,  was  there,  Har 
lan?" 

Harlan  smiled.  That  sort  of  thing  was  not  for  the 
Van  Harts. 

"You  ought  to  come  up  to  Wisconsin  instead  of  go- 


THE  TRAMP  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN  121 

ing  East.  That  Harvard  graft  is  all  right  for  law,  but 
you  want  to  catch  the  new  spirit  of  the  new  times. 
Sometime  up  there  in  the  North,  I'd  like  you  to  climb 
the  hill  with  me  and  see  the  fellows  from  the  cow  col 
lege  fight  to  get  into  Carmack's  lectures  on  political 
science.  I  say,  fight  to  get  in !  Carmack's  the  faculty 
chap  the  regents  would  fire  if  they  dared.  But  I  tell 
you  every  man  who  comes  out  of  the  class  room  is  a 
political  missionary  against  the  old  order.  You  ought 
to  hear  those  young  professors  talk — that's  the  stuff 
for  the  West !" 

Wiley's  eyes  were  on  the  two.  Both  native  sons  of 
the  Midlands,  one  bronzed  with  the  soil,  lean  with  his 
ardors ;  the  other  healthily  pink,  the  beauty  of  a  Gala 
had,  the  pure  nurture  of  his  father's  Victorian  stand 
ards — of  the  two  he  loved  Harlan  better.  There  was 
about  him  a  completion,  he  was  a  product  of  an  Ameri 
can  era  done ;  the  other  was  in  the  travail  of  the  mak 
ing.  But  he  could  visualize  all  of  Arne's  outcry.  He 
himself,  in  the  wandering  years,  had  seen  the  epic  of 
the  old  West  close ;  he  had  mingled  the  wine  of  his  life 
with  it.  But  now  the  new  land  was  here,  the  stately 
cities  rising,  the  ordered  nobleness  of  form.  That  was 
the  meaning  of  the  cry  and  tumult,  the  fuller  democ 
racy;  the  West  had  seen  and  caught  the  vision;  and 
Curran,  the  Celtic  romanticist,  could  feel  the  splendor. 

"  'You  shall  seek  the  truth,  and  the  truth  shall  make 
you  free ;'  that  is  what  they  tell  us  up  there,"  went  on 
Arne.  "I've  lain  in  bed  after  bucking  all  night  on  soil- 
tests  and  economic  history,  and  listened  to  the  young 
men  going  up  the  hill  to  Carmack's  lectures — the  young 
men  up  the  hill  in  the  snow  at  seven  o'clock!  And 


122  THE   MIDLANDERS 

when  he  declared  that  the  spirit  of  socialism  was  the 
spirit  of  every  good  thing  the  world  was  fighting  for ; 
when  he  told  them  to  go  out  and  preach  the  recall,  and 
the  state  control  of  wealth — I've  heard  them  shout,  and 
others  going  up  the  hill  took  up  the  shout.  That's 
what  we're  getting,  along  with  soil  culture  and  forest 
preservation  and  law  and  engineering — I  tell  you  it 
sounds  like  the  march  of  a  new  civilization — the  tramp 
of  the  young  men  going  up  the  hill." 

Harlan  listened  with  his  detached  and  friendly  smile. 
He  remembered  last  week  stopping  Arne  in  the  post- 
office  with  a  forecast  of  the  Yale-Harvard  football  sea 
son,  but  the  western  student  had  not  seemed  to  hear 
— perhaps  he  was  filled  with  his  vision  of  the  young 
men  going  up  the  hill  seeking  the  vision  of  the  New 
America,  the  truth  that  should  make  men  free. 

"All  those  young  fellows  going  back  to  their  states 
jump  into  politics,"  went  on  Arne.  "So  am  I,  Harlan. 
We're  going  to  stump  this  county  talking  pigs  and  pol 
itics,  and  we'll  ditch  Jim  Hall  for  congress  and  Fair- 
child  later.  And  where  will  you  be — you,  I  say !" 

"Arne,"  drawled  Harlan  with  aggravating  calm,  "I 
shall  probably  be  arguing  a  line-fence  case  in  the  justice 
court." 

Arne  snorted.  "Wiley,  here,  is  going  to  get  in  the 
primaries  against  Jim  Hall." 

"Wiley,"  put  in  Janet  slowly,  "last  week  the  gov 
ernor  was  asking  about  Curran  of  the  News." 

Wiley  flushed,  disconcerted  for  once.  He  felt  that 
Janet  was  shrewdly  reading  him.  He  had  met  Gov 
ernor  Delroy  once — the  fighting  anti-ring  governor, 
whom  the  rebellion  of  the  north  insurgents  had  put  in 


THE  TRAMP  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN  123 

the  chair.  But  that  Delroy  remembered  him!  After 
all,  with  his  philandering  old  News,  had  he  really  done 
something?  He  raised  his  eyes  to  see  Janet  smiling 
fondly  at  him,  that  old  affectionate  camaraderie  of  days 
long  dead.  Harlan,  too,  smiled.  It  was  rather  droll  to 
consider  this  obscure  country  editor  as  a  contestant 
against  James  Hall,  one  time  his  father's  law  partner, 
now  one  of  the  most  powerful  figures  of  the  lower 
house.  What,  then,  was  Wiley  Curran  in  the  new  civic 
conscience  of  the  state  ?  What  hidden  forces  were  ar 
rayed  against  the  old  order,  the  easy  dominance  of 
property  and  class  to  which  privilege  had  given  a  sort 
of  sanctity  ?  He  had  his  first  feeling  of  class  conscious 
ness,  now,  with  these  challenging  friends.  And  slowly 
his  thoughts  went  back  to  Aurelie,  to  that  sullen  re 
sentful  shame  with  which  he  had  become  aware  of  his 
failure  to  reconcile  his  love  for  her  with  his  sense  of 
obligation  to  his  parents,  their  tradition,  breeding,  their 
love  and  hopes  for  him.  This  seemed  deepest  in  him, 
this  abiding  sense  of  honor  to  them,  to  their  gentle 
birth  and  the  manners  of  their  kind.  There  were  two 
sorts  of  right,  then — the  clamor  of  those  who  fought 
up  to  seize  the  good  of  life,  and  the  steadfast  resolution 
of  those  who  possessed  this  good  and  would  hold  it 
against  the  others.  Nothing  new  in  the  problem;  it 
was  the  problem  of  democracy.  Harlan  was  consid 
ered  an  amiable  and  democratic  young  man,  yet  he 
could  not  define  certain  reserves  in  himself  and  why  it 
was  almost  impossible  to  pass  these  reserves  or  admit 
others  to  them,  although  they  were  the  common  under 
standing  of  cultured  people  everywhere.  That  was  it — • 
this  bond  of  cultured  people !  And  social  rebels,  polit- 


124  THE   MIDLANDERS 

ical  rebels;  the  eternal  spirit  of  rebellion  of  any  sort 
did  not  have  this,  or  cared  nothing  for  it — the  rough- 
and-tumble  of  life  left  little  time  for  its  fineness.  That 
was  left  to  those  of  the  established  order,  an  aristoc 
racy  to  which,  much  as  he  hated  the  word,  he  must  be 
long.  That  was  why  he  could  acutely  see  Aurelie  as 
the  little  vulgarian,  after  all;  of  obscure  origin  and 
social  gaucherie  once  she  was  placed  with  people  of  his 
sort.  His  sense  of  orderliness  detested  any  such  thing, 
and  so,  in  his  cooler  moments,  he  told  himself  he  did 
not  really  love  her.  She  had  touched  him  with  the 
pathos  of  her  love  for  him,  the  pathos  of  her  defeated 
gaiety  and  courage,  the  meagerness  of  her  life;  that 
was  all,  he  told  himself.  He  had  been  sorry  for  her — 
yes,  that  was  all.  But  he  wondered  at  his  anguish  and 
his  shame  that  night  she  ran  away  from  him. 

His  thoughts  came  back  to  his  friends  in  the  News 
office.  In  this  dingy  shop  the  sense  of  social  revolt  cen 
tered  ;  it  was  not  strange  that  through  the  News  Au 
relie  had  come  to  this  abominable  notoriety;  all  the 
things  about  Aurelie  that  would  exasperate  Harlan, 
would  merely  delight  the  vagabond  soul  of  Wiley  Cur- 
ran.  It  was  no  use  being  angry  at  Wiley  about  it ;  his 
yellow  dog  of  a  paper  would  merely  yelp  the  louder. 

Even  now,  when  Janet  Vance  and  Arne  were  trying 
to  compel  a  moment's  serious  thought  in  Mr.  Curran, 
the  editor  was  yawning,  "Me — for  congress  ?  And  you 
actually  think  I  am  beginning  a  career  ?  Janet,  yester 
day  I  was  kicking  away  at  this  old  job-press  when  a 
drummer  blew  in  here  and  tried  to  sell  me  a  set  of  desk 
stamps.  He  was  one  of  those  ingratiating  boosters,  and 
as  I  had  my  hat  on  he  thought  I  was  about  twenty-one. 


THE  TRAMP  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN  125 

He  set  down  his  case,  as  I  didn't  stop  work,  and  began 
to  tell  me  how  much  good  it  did  him  to  see  a  young 
man  fighting  away  down  here  to  make  a  start  in  life. 

"I  said,  'Stranger,  what  you  see  here  is  no  start  in 
li  fe;  it's  a  finish !' " 

Miss  Vance  did  not  smile — at  first.  Then,  at  Wiley's 
rueful  discomfiture  she  did.  But  she  said  sternly: 
"Wiley,  I'm  ashamed  of  you !" 

"So  am  I,  Janet."  He  crossed  his  legs  over  the 
waste-paper  basket  and  sighed.  "But  I'm  growing  up 
— slowly.  I  know  what  Arne  means.  The  tramp-tramp 
of  his  northmen — the  big-limbed  students  up  the  hill. 
And  I  see  his  leaders,  too.  I  know  what  Delroy  is  and 
means.  Good  God,  I  gave  my  life  to  the  West !"  He 
sat  forward,  his  eyes  shining.  "Only  it  was  its  poetry 
and  its  epic  bigness  that  got  me,  not  its  outcry  of  con 
science,  its  political  idealism.  Arne  felt  that;  he 
brought  it  back  to  us  here  in  the  South.  And  I  know, 
Janet !  Something  at  last  has  stirred  me !" 

Arne  arose  and  was  winding  his  big  silver  watch. 
"Maybe  now  you'll  get  a  hustle  on  and  change  the 
News  to  a  daily." 

"The  bank  turned  me  down  on  that  dinky  loan.  And 
when  I  tried  to  get  it  in  Earlville,  some  mysterious 
power  blocked  me  there.  I  know  well  enough ;  it's  all 
because  of  the  fight  I  made  to  get  the  town  to  take  the 
pumping  contract  away  from  Thad  Tanner  and  have  a 
municipal  plant." 

Harlan  stirred.  His  father  was  a  director  of  the 
bank.  He  did  not  like  Wiley's  insinuation;  but  then 
his  father  did  not  like  Wiley.  He  murmured  some  in 
consequential  badinage  and  followed  Arne  out  to  where 


126  THE   MIDLANDERS 

the  student- farmer  was  bringing  his  mud-splashed  colts 
to  the  News  horse-block. 

"I  wish,"  muttered  Arne,  "you'd  get  Wiley  into  this. 
He's  got  a  chance — such  a  big  chance  for  the  nomina 
tion.  .  It's  going  to  be  our  year — the  young  men's  turn, 
Harlan.  And,  old  boy,  we  want  you  with  us !" 

Harlan  smiled  lazily.  "Old  boy,  it's  great  to  see  any 
one  so  earnest!  I  don't  imagine  it's  in  me.  Father 
hasn't  much  use  for  the  insurgent  idea.  And  you  know 
our  family;  the  senator  is  mother's  cousin,  and  Hall 
was  father's  law  partner." 

Arne  grimaced.  He  knew  all  that!  "Your  people 
expect  you  to  be  in  politics  sometime,  Harlan,  don't 
they?  Well,  you  want  to  look  ahead!" 

"The  tramp  of  the  young  men  up  the  hill !"  Harlan 
quoted  good-humoredly.  "Well,  good-by,  old  chap ; 
it's  East  for  me  to-morrow,  and  West  for  you !"  He 
held  out  his  firm  strong  hand  to  Arne's  rough  one. 
"Next  year  I'll  have  out  my  shingle  above  the  bank  cor 
ner,  and  you'll  be  experimenting  with  soils  among  the 
farmers,  and  we'll  see  !" 

Arne  smiled  back  the  friendly  challenge.  "And 
Wiley — let's  help  put  him  over,  however  things  go.  I'll 
be  out  among  the  farmers,  and  you  among  your  sort 
of  people — High  Street  and  all.  Janet,  there" — his 
eyes  went  to  the  trim  blue-gowned  figure  of  his  sister 
sitting  forward  in  the  editor's  chair — "she's  set  her 
heart  upon  it.  Harlan,  she's  waited  all  her  life  for 
Wiley's  awakening!"  He  appealed  in  all  his  boyish 
ardor  to  his  friend.  "Wiley,  if  he'd  have  a  career — if 
he'd  do  something,  she'd  marry  him !"  Then  he  added 
hastily,  "Or  he'd  marry  her!  He'd  realize,  then,  all 


THE  TRAMP  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN  127 

she  is  to  him.  Wiley's  awakening- — that's  what  I'm 
after — and  this  is  his  big  chance !" 

Harlan  nodded.  All  the  county,  these  many  years, 
had  put  the  names  of  the  erratic  editor  and  the  efficient 
school  superintendent  together — and  in  vain.  Janet 
was  one  of  the  notable  women  of  the  state's  educational 
work.  Curran  was  still  "Curran  of  the  News" 

Curran,  this  same  minute,  was  badgering  Miss  Vance 
about  her  political  proclivities.  "I  thought,"  he 
drawled,  "that  since  you  ventured  to  remark  in  your 
address  to  the  county  institute,  that  the  constitution  of 
the  United  States  was  not,  after  all,  a  supernally  wise 
instrument,  Boss  Tanner  and  all  the  old  bats  about 
town  had  concluded  that  you  were  unfit  to  be  school 
superintendent!  Old  Thad,  who,  during  the  war, 
cleaned  up  his  million  on  shoddy  contracts  with  the 
government,  roaring  for  the  constitution — ain't  it  a 
holy  show?" 

Miss  Vance  arose  and  came  to  him  determinedly,  her 
clean-cut  face  looking  down  at  him  with  a  humorous 
impatience.  "Just  the  same,  Wiley,  any  one  who  wants 
to  get  on  in  politics  in  this  county  must  reckon  with 
Mr.  Tanner.  I  wish  you'd  know  it !" 

"It's  more  fun,"  responded  Mr.  Curran,  "to  insinuate 
he's  a  thief." 

"But  not  politics." 

"Upon  my  soul,  Janet" — he  looked  up,  curiously — 
"you  women  of  the  day  get  me.  You  are  so  damned 
successful  at  this  game — tell  me  how  you  do  it  ?" 

She  smiled  with  some  demureness.  "If  you  insinu 
ate  I'm  a  woman  politician,  very  well.  I'll  tell  you 
some  points  of  my  game — it's  never  to  let  my  waist  line 


128  THE   MIDLANDERS 

lose  itself.  And  investing  a  deal  of  my  salary  in  mas 
seurs  and  hair-dressing  instead  of  political  assessments. 
And  getting  about  casually  among  the  men,  and  yet 
never  appearing  too  wise." 

"I  understand  that  the  school  board,  which  fought 
you  to  the  last  ditch,  has  removed  all  the  cuspidors 
from  its  rooms  and  shaves  twice  a  week  since  the 
woman  superintendent  was  elected!  And  that  the 
Democrats  can't  find  a  man  to  oppose  you.  Thad  Tan 
ner  tried  to  get  young  Mills  of  the  Earlville  Normal  to 
run  against  you,  didn't  he  ?  But  Mills  didn't  run." 

Janet  put  a  firm  gloved  hand  on  his  arm.  "Not  since 
I  put  on  my  best  clothes  and  went  to  an  Elks'  Club  La 
dies'  Night  dance  purposely  to  put  the  notion  out  of 
Mr.  Mills'  mind !  It  took  half  my  dance  program, 
though !" 

Wiley  rubbed  his  hands  delightedly.  "Lord,  Janet — 
it's  genius !" 

"No — business.  And  Wiley — oh,  I  want  you  to 
wake  up!  Do  something!  Be  with  us — the  people 
who  try  something !  Oh,  Wiley,  I  want  you  to !" 

That  was  ever  her  old  fond  cry.  Ever  since  their 
school-days  she  had  tried  something  and  that  was  to 
make  a  success  of  Wiley.  Even  he,  with  the  trifling 
blindness  of  a  man,  might  have  known  what  was  be 
hind  it  all.  She  went  on  mournfully:  "You  said 
something  had  stirred  you  at  last,  Wiley !" 

He  was  looking  past  her  out  the  window  to  Harlan 
and  Arne  across  the  Square.  The  door  was  open,  and 
the  evening  held  the  first  cool  stealth  of  autumn.  The 
breeze  upon  the  gray  facades  of  the  rock  behind  the 
town  showered  down  the  red  and  yellow  leaves.  Al- 


THE  TRAMP  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN  129 

ready,  from  the  elevation  of  Curran's  shop,  one  could 
catch  glimpses  of  the  distant  river  through  the  denuded 
cottonwoods  of  the  bottom  lands.  And  his  eyes  were 
there  with  their  old  detachment  of  a  man  who  dreams 
of  what  he  had  found  and  lost  out  beyond  the  circling 
hills ;  of  what  the  years  had  given  and  taken  away, 
and  he  had  stood  by  empty-handed.  But  he  turned  to 
her  with  sudden  new  eagerness. 

"Janet,  I  wonder  if  it's  all  as  you  and  Arne  say? 
And  McBride,  over  in  Earlville,  and  Purcell,  and  these 
men  who  have  such  a  curious  notion  that  I  can  beat 
Hall  in  the  primaries?  And  Governor  Delroy,  he 
spoke  of  me?" 

"Yes.  You  know  his  organization  doesn't  amount  to 
much  down  here.  It  needs  local  leadership.  They 
want  a  man  out  for  congress.  Assemblyman  Barrett, 
of  Dallas  County,  was  considered,  but  they  need  him 
where  he  is.  And  all  the  other  progressives  are  like 
father — too — well,  they've  had  their  fling.  The  move 
ment  wants  new  men  and  young  men." 

"But  me  in  congress.  It  sure  would  be  a  treat  for 
congress !" 

"Oh,  Wiley !    Be  serious !" 

He  was  still  for  a  long  time.  Yes,  he  had  been  the 
watcher  from  afar  of  the  righting  men.  He  had  thought 
his  years  of  ardor  done.  He  spoke  at  last  very  gently. 

"Janet,  I'm  remorsefully  humble.  You've  been  my 
good  angel — always,  since  we  were  kids  in  school. 
Good  God,  how  a  man  flings  his  youth  away !  Eh,  I 
thought  that  was  what  I'd  done.  But  Janet,  I've  awak 
ened — I  have !" 

Her  eyes  were  sparkling.     She  tensed  with  a  new 


130  THE    MIDLANDERS 

splendid  jubilance.  She  had  been  the  militant;  she 
was  of  that  fine  modernity  that  has  given  to  strong 
women  the  fearless  vision  and  the  will  to  do,  and  has 
taken  nothing  from  their  womanhood.  She  was  alert 
with  the  expression  of  sex,  inescapable,  undaunted,  as 
free  as  a  man's  virile  pride.  And  Curran,  with  his 
love  for  the  modern,  his  hatred  of  sham,  had  felt  at 
times,  the  pulsing  of  her  power  and  had  misunderstood 
nothing.  That  was  the  bond  of  their  intimacy;  this 
knowledge  unspoken  but  unafraid. 

"Wiley,"  she  murmured.  "You  will  come  out?  You 
will  go  in  the  primaries  ?  Oh,  will  you  ?  I've  waited  so 
long,  Wiley  !  For  you !" 

"I  know.  And  this  very  week  I — I — seemed  to  see 
myself  aright — to  realize  what  a  miserable  failure  I'd 
been — a  dreamer.  Oh,  something  very  wonderful 
awakened  me — quickened  me.  I'll  tell  you,  Janet,  the 
very  first  thing !" 

She  looked  curiously  at  him,  but  with  her  bright 
fond  faith,  her  overflowing*  happiness.  The  fine  hard 
lines  that  the  years  had  schooled  about  her  eyes  were 
gone. 

"The  very  first  thing!  Oh,  but  the  point  is  that 
you've  done  it!  We'll  work  for  you — all  my  friends 
who've  stood  by  me  will  be  with  you.  But  the  first 
thing — was  it  to-day?" 

"No.  Last  Tuesday.  A  little  thing — such  a  foolish 
little  thing.  But  it  hit  me  hard — it  appealed  to  the 
sentimental  in  me,  I  suppose.  But  you  know  me — all 
that  sense  of  romance  that's  made  a  beggar  of  me, 
Janet !  It  was  Aurelie  Lindstrom." 

She  did  not  stir ;  her  attentive  eyes  were  on  him 


THE  TRAMP  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN  131 

merely,  but  the  cool  shrewd  reading  of  her  workaday 
life  came  over  the  eagerness  of  a  moment  ago. 
"Aurelie?"  she  murmured — "and  her  prize-winning?" 
She  smiled  slowly.  "Why,  Wiley,  you  hardly  knew  the 
child !" 

"Yes.  But  the  thing  hit  me,  Janet.  She  came  to 
me" — he  hesitated  over  mentioning  Harlan's  name  in 
Aurelie's  troubled  case — "this  thing  confused  her  so. 
And  hurt  her — it  was — sort  of  a — a — tragedy,  Janet. 
And  she  left  it  all  to  me — what  she  should  do.  Here's 
this  great  newspaper  going  to  shout  all  about  her  next 
Sunday — you  know  the  stuff — her  beauty,  and  her  po 
sition  and  life  and  prospects — all  that  sort  of  thing. 
I  know  its  cheapness  and  its  silliness,  but  it's  her 
chance,  Janet !  She  asked  me  what  to  do." 

"Yes."    She  watched  his  ardent  eyes. 

"I  told  her  to  go  on,  seize  all  the  best  in  it.  She  is 
a  grand  little  girl,  someway.  You  know  I've  lived 
South — I  know  her  temperament — I  know  all  she's  had 
to  fight,  too,  out  at  Lindstrom's.  Know  and  sympa 
thize  with — I  don't  suppose  another  person  in  all  the 
town  could  know  or  care!" 

"I  don't  imagine."  Janet  knew  Wiley  Curran. 
Somehow,  if  there  was  a  homeless  old  soldier,  or  a 
destitute  family  in  the  county,  they  always  came  to 
Wiley's  attention — he  was  ever  knowing  and  caring, 
helplessly  in  his  penniless  struggle  with  the  Nezvs. 

"But  you,  Wiley — what  can  you  do  for  her?" 

"I  don't  know.  Only  befriend  her.  All  the  town's 
laughing  over  her  winning  a  beauty  prize.  No  one 
ever  noticed  her,  except  she  was  considered  pretty  and 
eccentric.  The  big  fatheads!"  he  cried  breathlessly. 


132  THE   MIDLANDERS 

"Does  any  one  suppose  they'd  see  that  marvelous  purity 
in  her  face — her  grace,  and  all  that  odd  quality  of  her 
mind  and  soul — " 

"Wiley?"  Miss  Vance  sat  back,  her  lips  tightened. 

"Oh,  I  know !  Scold  me— say  I  can't  afford  it !  That 
it's  aroused  a  lot  of  heartburnings  and  jealousies  and 
silly  rot  in  town,  and  I  shouldn't  be  in  it!  But  she 
came  to  me — she  said  I  was  almost  her  only  friend  in 
Rome.  And  with  all  this  notoriety — Aurelie,  bewil 
dered,  dumbstruck — needs  protection — a — friend !" 

"You  consider  yourself  a — chaperon  ?" 

"Don't  laugh.    I  tell  you  she  woke  me  up!" 

"What  possibly  could  she  have  to  do  with  your 
awakening?" 

"We  had  a  long  talk.  A  splendid  talk,  Janet.  I  saw 
the  hopelessness  of  her  life  if  she  stayed  here.  There's 
nothing  for  her  here.  And  now,  who  can  tell  ?  Why, 
I'll  bet  she  gets  proposals  of  marriage  by  the  dozen — 
artists  will  want  to  paint  her,  managers  will  want  her 
to  go  on  the  stage — everything  is  possible  with  her! 
And  she  left  it  to  me,  Janet — and  I  told  her  go — seize 
all  the  good  in  life,  anyhow,  anyway — live,  live!" 

"And  you?"  Janet  pursued  pitilessly. 

"Ah,  well !  That  little  girl — suffering  so .  And  only 
I  know  how  she  is  suffering!  I  told  you  it  fired  me. 
She  grew  so  wide-eyed  and  big  with  it,  and  determined 
to  be  somebody!  And  I  thought  of  myself — the  years 
I'd  wasted,  Janet,  and  I  said  to  myself:  'God  bless 
you,  child !  If  you  can,  7  can !'  I  don't  know  how  it 
was,  but  I  felt  my  old  fire  again — my  old  ambition ! 
That's  why  I  promised  you,  Janet,  to  make  this  fight." 


THE  TRAMP  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN  133 

"Yes,"  Janet  answered  slowly.  "I'll  help  you, 
Wiley." 

He  could  not  see  her  face.  She  was  watching  her 
brother  bring  the  rig  across  the  street.  But  the  splen 
dor  seemed  to  have  died  for  her ;  in  its  stead  was  the 
old  shrewd  patience  of  the  successful  woman,  touched 
now  with  pathos  for  some  haunting  defeat.  "Yes,  I'll 
help  you,  Wiley,"  she  added  and  arose  to  go. 

Wiley  watched  them  drive  away.  At  the  end  of  the 
street  the  gray  of  the  autumn  country  began ;  the  lone 
ly  land  of  hill  and  bottom,  but  over  it  the  home  fires 
were  burning.  So  they  thought  something  of  him  out 
there?  Curran  of  the  News — the  heart  in  exile,  the 
man  without  place  and  honor?  They  believed  in  him, 
the  brown-armed  quiet  men;  they  had  watched  his 
fight,  heard  his  incessant  outcry  against  every  wrong, 
every  privilege  of  class  whether  in  the  obscure  country 
side,  or  out  in  the  great  world  ?  He  could  not  tell.  It 
had  seemed  as  if  he  spoke  alone,  championing  valiant 
but  hollow  theories  against  their  complacent  incred 
ulity.  He  had  envied,  at  times,  the  prosperous  town 
tradesmen,  professional  men,  the  best  people — they  had 
not  spent  their  hearts  in  crying  out  for  new  things — 
and  the  county  had  enriched  them. 

But  now  out  of  his  long  and  hidden  despair  of  him 
self  a  great  vision  came;  the  farm-home  lights  were 
beacon  fires  lighted  for  an  eternal  struggle,  awaiting 
the  coming  leaders.  And  his  heart  cried  out  that  he 
would  be  one  to  answer ;  he  understood  at  last  what 
Arne  meant.  He  heard  the  Tramp  of  the  Young  Men 
up  the  Hill. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   BEAUTY   PRIZE 

THE  following  Sunday  Rome  had  its  wonder — a 
specially-written  wonder  done  in  three  colors  on 
the  front  page  of  the  Sunday  sup.  There  was  a  demand 
for  the  Chronicle  at  the  Junction  depot  after  the  one- 
ten  train  and  at  the  post-office  news  stand  which  sold 
Nout  every  paper  and  the  agents  telegraphed  to  Burling 
ton  for  more.  There  was  none  in  Earlville ;  the  two 
towns  forgot  their  bickerings  and  gazed — many  a  Sun 
day  dinner  was  delayed  while  they  gabbled  about  Aure- 
lie  Lindstrom's  picture  with  its  three-color  border  of 
cupids  and  hearts  and  darts  and  young  men  in  evening 
clothes  tangled  in  spiders'  webs  and  all  the  sort  of  thing 
that  publishers  use  to  embellish  whatever  they  print 
about  girls. 

As  Mr.  Curran  of  the  News  often  remarked,  as  he 
fingered  the  magazines  at  the  post-office  news  stand 
and  opened  his  Sunday  paper,  the  American  people 
were  perfectly  crazy  about  girls  if  their  art  and  litera 
ture  went  for  anything.  But  Rome,  Iowa,  wasn't. 
Young  men  that  sunny  November  Sunday  drove  their 
sweethearts  out  the  quarry  road,  feet  on  the  dash 
boards,  chewing  their  gum,  gazing  at  Miss  Lindstrom's 
picture,  peering  furtively  at  the  Lindstrom  house,  and 
then  drove  back  no  wiser  than  before.  Not  a  glimpse 

134 


THE    BEAUTY    PRIZE  135 

of  the  three-color  beauty  winner  did  they  get.  And  on 
all  the  buggy  rides  and  walking  home  from  the  young 
people's  services  it  was  agreed  that  she  was  preposter 
ously  overrated.  And  in  all  the  comments — sarcastic, 
belittling,  cruel — ran  the  note  of  inquiry ;  what  would 
the  bootlegger's  girl  do  now  ? 

Aurelie  sat  in  a  sort  of  bewilderment  when  Knute 
brought  the  first  Sunday  Chronicle  hom^.  When  John 
came  back  from  church  he  saw  it  on  the  floor  and  tore 
the  offending  picture  from  the  page.  Then  he  ordered 
her  harshly  to  go  to  her  room,  and  the  girl  obeyed.  In 
the  chill  of  the  tiny  chamber  she  sat  staring  at  the  lit 
tle  silver  crucifix  hanging  over  her  mirror.  Old  Mich 
igan  crept  in  after  a  while,  when  the  buzz  of  silly  neigh 
bor  women  grew  too  much  for  him  in  the  kitchen.  He 
sat  on  the  edge  of  Aurelie's  little  white  bed  and  drew 
her  down  until  her  hair  was  tangled  in  his  shaggy 
beard. 

"Done  come  up-river,"  he  whispered,  "to  occupy  the 
land!  Reckon  so!  Don't  mind  John,  my  little  girl. 
He's  hard  with  his  religion,  but  he's  meanin'  well.  Law 
done  drove  him  to  his  bitterness  and  exile,  and  give  him 
hate  'stead  of  love.  But  my  girl  he  can't  change  a 
hair  of  your  head,  or  the  pink  of  your  pretty  cheek !" 

And  then  she  cried  as  Aurelie  rarely  cried ;  and  crept 
to  the  old  whisky  pedler,  and  all  the  afternoon  they 
huddled  together  to  keep  warm,  while  Mrs.  Lind- 
strom's  silly  chatter  to  the  neighbor  women  went  on, 
and  the  boys  sat  apart  in  awe  as  if  some  tragedy  had 
fallen  on  them.  The  gossip  of  the  town  went  on.  The 
next  day  young  Butts  of  the  Mercury- Journal  drove 
from  Earlville  to  interview  her  and  met  a  gaunt  fever- 


136  THE   MIDLANDERS 

ish-eyed  man  who  ordered  him  away,  his  shotgun  lying 
handily  across  the  rail  fence.  The  correspondent  saw 
two  ragged  tow-headed  children  and  a  lean-hipped  cow 
or  two  beyond  the  forlorn  shanty  and  that  was  all.  Be 
yond  was  the  corn  patch,  and  the  other  unpainted  cot 
tages  of  the  quarrymen,  and  then  the  gray  bluff  with 
its  never-ceasing  roar  and  dust  cloud  from  Thad  Tan 
ner's  quarry. 

Some  curious  town  people  tried  to  call.  Lindstrom 
gave  them  the  same  grim  welcome.  And  all  the  week 
the  town  seethed  with  curiosity.  Prim  misses  read  the 
newspapers  more  assiduously  than  ever  before;  and 
the  Chronicle  felicitated  itself  and  "spread"  with  more 
details  of  Aurelie's  life — incidentally  setting  loose  a 
horde  of  canvassers  all  over  the  state  to  work  up  sub 
scriptions,  giving  away  a  half-tone  of  the  beauty  win 
ner  with  each. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  fulminated  the  Chronicle, 
"for  this  little  country  girl  to  be  announced  as  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  the  country?  In  the  first  place  it 
means  admiration,  love.  That  is  first  in  every  woman's 
heart  of  hearts.  Hundreds  of  thousands  of  men  have 
gazed  on  her  picture  and  felt  their  hearts  moved.  Thou 
sands  have  written  declaring  they  adored  her.  Sincere 
honest  men,  some  of  them  laborers,  some  millionaires, 
have  offered  their  hands  to  the  modest  young  beauty. 
They  send  references  of  their  social  and  financial  stand 
ing,  church  and  lodge  connections  and  prospects.  Law 
yers  offer  her  positions  as  stenographer ;  manufactur 
ers  seek  to  have  her  demonstrate  their  goods ;  she  is 
asked  to  sing,  to  lecture,  to  go  on  the  stage.  Ministers 
write  her  advice ;  actresses  ask  the  secret  of  her  beauty ; 


THE    BEAUTY    PRIZE  137 

mothers  warn  her  against  the  seductions  of  her  fame. 
Strangers  come  to  the  little  Iowa  farm  to  gaze  on  the 
abode  of  beauty ;  the  telephone  bell  is  constantly  ring 
ing  as  people  call  up  to  congratulate  her.  She  is  show 
ered  with  gifts,  honors,  invitations,  emoluments — so 
great  a  thing  is  it  to  be  declared  by  the  Chronicle  to 
be  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  land." 

As  Vawter,  the  artist,  the  pimply-faced  youth  who 
took  that  luckless  picture  in  his  shabby  studio  up  above 
the  Hub  Clothing  Store,  remarked  to  Mr.  Curran: 
"Oh,  Gawd !" 

Vawter  was  peevish  because  none  mentioned  that  he 
took  the  photograph.  "Here's  you  and  me,  Wiley, 
stirred  up  all  this  bunk — and  just  think  of  'em  sayin* 
there's  a  telephone  down  in  Old  Mich's  shack  in  the 
bottoms — and  we  ain't  gettin'  a  cussed  thing  out  of  it ! 
We  ain't  even  gotta  line  in  the  papers!  Why  don't 
you  roast  'em?" 

Wiley  Curran  smiled  distantly. 

"Bunk!"  sniffed  Vawter,  the  artist,  and  went  away. 
"I  don't  believe  any  thousand  millionaires  want  to 
marry  Aurelie  Lindstrom.  Shucks,  they's  heaps  of 
girls  right  in  high  school  prettier'n  she  is.  It's  my 
picture  that  done  it  and  what  do  /  git  ?  Fitchered,  by 
swanny !" 

And  when  the  artist  came  on  store  clerks  and  travel 
ing  men  discussing  her  about  the  Square,  and  the 
strangers  asked  of  the  beauty  winner,  lie  growled: 
"Bunk!  Don't  ask  me!" 

Mowry,  the  undertaker,  who  always  came  into  the 
News  office  to  peddle  gossip  and  read  the  proofs  of 
county  board  meetings  to  see  if  there  were  not  some 


i38  THE    MIDLANDERS 

indigent  dead  he  could  bury,  was  rasping  his  shiny 
serged  legs  before  Mr.  Curran's  stove  and  summing 
up  the  town's  comment. 

"Everybody's  sore.  Folks  air  goin'  to  stop  them 
She-cawgo  papers.  Wimmen's  Club  says  it's  demoral 
izing  and  the  teachers  say  it  busts  up  school  work. 
Cal  Rice,  over  to  the  bank,  he  says  of  all  the  disgustin' 
things  is  for  the  Chronicle  to  git  roped  in  by  a  French 
girl  this  way.  And  Dickinson,  I  guess  he's  sore  be 
cause  his  girl  didn't  git  no  prize,  and  everybody  is 
hollerin' ;  and  here  I  ain't  buried  anybody  for  two 
months !"  He  looked  across  at  the  Widow  Steger's 
hollyhock  walk:  "Hey,  how's  the  widder?" 

"I  understand  that  Dickinson  is  going  to  send  her 
to  Burlington  for  treatment,"  answered  Wiley. 

"Just  so.  And  she'll  die  in  hospital!  And  I  been 
a-buyin'  my  groceries  at  Dickinson's  for  seven  years — • 
ever  since  the  widder  was  took!  Dog-gone,  Wiley — 
this  is  a  sorehead  town !" 

Old  Mowry  went  out  to  denounce  the  grocer  and 
the  county  board  to  every  farmer  along  the  hitching- 
rails.  He  had  been  county  coroner  until  the  story  got 
out  that  once  he  fished  a  nigger  out  of  Broad  slough, 
held  an  inquest  and  buried  him,  and  put  in  his  claim  for 
fees.  Four  days  after  he  discovered  another  nigger 
under  the  ice,  held  an  inquest  and  buried  him — with 
fees.  Three  days  after,  another  mysterious  nigger 
was  found  and  buried — with  fees.  Then  the  weather 
unfortunately  grew  warm,  and  some  one  started  an 
investigation.  The  nigger  and  the  coroner's  political 
career  spoiled  simultaneously  that  week.  Old  Mowry 
had  been  shuffling  around  the  court-house  trying  to 


THE    BEAUTY    PRIZE  139 

collect  his  fees  from  every  succeeding  county  board, 
but  always  the  ghost  of  that  colored  citizen  haunted 
him.  And  every  monthly  board  meeting  Father  Doyle 
drove  over  from  Earlville  to  see  if  Howry's  claim 
had  been  allowed.  Mowry  was  the  sole  Catholic  in 
Rome,  but  the  only  time  he  would  contribute  a  cent 
was  when  he  had  buried  a  Protestant  in  good  standing. 
And  one  of  the  undertaker's  grievances,  always  aired 
in  the  News  office,  was  that  county  dead  should  not 
figure  in  the  good  priest's  calculations — he  couldn't 
collect  his  fees,  anyhow,  out  of  this  gol-durned  board. 
Mr.  Curran  listened  patiently.  The  priest  was  his  good 
friend.  So  was  Mowry.  So  seemed  all  the  lame  ducks 
of  the  community — and  no  one  else.  He  wondered 
now,  in  his  new-found  ambitions,  why  all  the  repre 
sentative  men  seemed  afraid  of  him ;  and  why  all  the 
nondescript  humanity  of  the  town  attached  itself  to 
him.  Mowry  was  the  first  to  spread  the  news  about  the 
court-house  that  week  that  Curran  was  going  to  run 
against  Jim  Hall  in  the  congressional  primaries.  Mr. 
Curran,  when  he  made  his  usual  round  of  the  county 
building  for  the  batch  of  items,  reaped  an  unexpected 
harvest. 

He  met  Thad  Tanner  and  his  son-in-law,  Cal  Rice, 
of  the  First  National  Bank,  in  the  corridor.  Cal  Rice's 
wife  owned  most  of  the  Earlville  Mercury-Journal 
stock ;  and  recently  the  Mercury- Journal  had  been  giv 
ing  away  jardinieres  and  eight-day  clocks  with  sub 
scriptions  in  an  endeavor  to  put  the  News  out  of 
business.  Old  Thad  and  Cal  were  talking  about  it 
now  and  some  of  the  county  board  were  with  them. 
Thad  had  boasted  five  years  ago  that  he  would  put 


140  THE   MIDLANDERS 

"that  damned  four-page  rag  on  the  dump"  behind 
Curran's  shop,  but  still  the  "rag"  persisted.  Somehow 
the  county  remembered  the  day  the  elder  Curran  was 
stretched  senseless  across  the  dingy  desk  by  a  copper 
head  mob. 

Old  Thad  was  small  and  screw-headed,  with  a  con 
tinually  baring  upper  lip  as  he  talked,  and  his  husky 
voice  came  out  of  a  toothless  cavern  of  a  mouth  that 
seemed  never  quite  able  to  close  its  grinning.  Yet 
he  had  a  certain  clear  and  stinging  way  of  stating 
facts,  a  rugged  "horse  sense",  and  profane  humor  that 
accounted  for  much  of  his  dominance  in  the  county 
affairs — that  and  his  money  and  fighting  qualities. 
And  he  knew  men.  He  knew  Wiley  Curran.  Wiley 
had  an  exasperating  idea  that  Old  Thad,  by  some 
intuition,  had  gaged  year  by  year,  month  by  month, 
week  by  week,  the  decay  of  the  News — that  he  could 
forecast  very  nearly  how  much  longer  the  malcontent 
sheet  would  keep  up  its  barking. 

"Morning,  Mr.  Curran;"  Thad  turned  from  the 
board  members  as  the  editor  mounted  the  court-house 
steps.  "How  is  our  very  weakly  these  days  ?" 

That  was  a  never-failing  banter  of  the  county  boss. 
The  farmer  members  were  apt  to  smile  deprecatingly ; 
and  the  editor  kept  his  temper.  He  wondered  how  the 
big-bodied  countrymen  could  tolerate  the  boss's  grin 
— he  always  was  so  sure  of  himself — and  them.  Old 
Thad  felt  good  this  morning — he  had  got  his  contracts 
for  the  creek  diversion  and  road  culvert  about  which 
the  News  had  been  peppering  the  board.  Only  Burt 
Hemminger,  a  pale-eyed,  yellow-bearded  farmer,  had 
protested  and  mumbled  something  about  the  News' 


THE    BEAUTY    PRIZE  141 

charges  that  the  Tanner  quarries  were  the  chief  bene 
ficiaries  of  the  work.  Boydston  and  Curry,  the  road 
committee,  and  Tanner  men,  had  put  through  the  con 
tracts  without  comment — it  was  the  usual  program. 
So  now  the  quarry  boss  thought  he  could  badger  the 
defeated  News  complacently. 

"The  honorable  board  has  just  voted  for  the  creek 
work,  Mr.  Editor!  You  might  make  a  note  of  it. 
But  I  suppose  the  News  will  be  too  filled  this  week 
with  politics.  We  hear  you're  coming  out  against 
Jim  Hall?" 

The  county  men  were  looking  at  Curran.  Judge 
Van  Hart  and  the  district  attorney,  Jewett,  a  pot 
bellied  nonentity,  were  coming  from  the  court  room. 
Tanner  spoke  purposely  loud ;  he  wanted  to  smoke  out 
this  joke  of  the  editor's  aspirations. 

"I  am  going  in  the  primary,"  said  Curran  quietly. 
The  group  stopped  curiously.  Cal  Rice,  ever  taking 
his  cue  from  the  boss,  laughed.  Jewett  rubbed  his 
bald  head.  The  News  was  his  aversion.  Wiley  had 
hounded  him  as  a  prosecutor  who  never  began  action 
against  any  one  except  bootleggers,  drunk  section- 
hands  and  any  sort  of  homeless  men.  Jewett  was 
noted  as  a  famous  barbecue  cook,  and  at  Old  Home 
Week  festivals,  Old  Settlers'  picnics  and  the  like, 
white-aproned,  genial,  good-humored,  he  presided. 
During  campaigns  he  gave  bullhead  breakfasts  in 
the  woods,  where  county  politicians,  prominent  lodge 
members,  influential  farmers — any  one  who  was  any 
one — congregated,  and  through  a  night  of  rough  con 
viviality — a  vast  glut  of  eating,  drinking,  songs  and 
speeches — Jewett  won  his  election.  Church  folk  and 


142  THE    MIDLANDERS 

wives  complained  of  these  orgies,  but  Jewett  offered 
his  cookery  and  his  jokes  with  equal  facility  to  the 
church  festivals  and  quieted  the  talk.  Curran  never 
attended  these  bullhead  feasts — they  disgusted  the 
esthete's  taste  in  him,  arid  besides,  with  the  unsure- 
ness  of  the  nervous  man,  he  did  not  care  to  face  the 
banter  of  the  county  crowd  at  its  wildest. 

Old  Thad  waddled  nearer  to  tap  Curran  on  the  arm. 
"Young  man,  congress  is  a  sizable  pill  for  you,  ain't 
it?  And  don't  you  know  there  ain't  any  man  gone  to 
Washington  in  this  district  in  twenty  years  unless  he 
come  see  me  about  it  ?" 

The  country  politicians  laughed  briefly.  Wiley 
watched  them  keenly.  "I  didn't  know  as  the  nomina 
tion  was  yours  to  give  out,  Mr.  Tanner.  And  you 
know  you  can't  fool  all  the  people  all  the  time !" 

The  boss  closed  one  pursy  eye,  grinning.  "Young 
man,  that's  never  necessary!" 

The  farmer  folk  guffawed.  Jewett  rubbed  his 
stomach.  Judge  Van  Hart,  his  fine  face  oblivious  to 
all  this,  went  on  his  way.  And  Wiley,  feeling  some 
how,  that  he  had  lost  an  opening  round  in  his  inabil 
ity  to  retort  to  the  boss,  crossed  the  Square  to  his 
office.  He  was  furious  with  himself.  He  had  planned 
to  keep  the  announcement  of  his  campaign  until  he 
could  see  some  of  the  men  who  would  be  with  him — 
Purcell  and  McBride,  of  Earlville,  Jake  Vance  and 
Arne  and  some  of  the  scattered  malcontents  in  other 
counties  of  the  district.  But  here  the  boss  had  made 
a  fool  of  him  before  his  own  people  at  the  very  start ! 
He  was  savage  with  the  realization  that  Janet  Vance's 
window  in  the  county  building  was  open;  that  in  all 


THE    BEAUTY    PRIZE  143 

likelihood  she  had  heard  Old  Thad's  jest  and  the 
laughter.  No,  he  had  not  done  well.  And  his  old 
discontent  with  himself  came  over  him ;  the  pitiless 
feeling  that  he  did  not  measure  up  to  the  rough  game 
men  played  in  business  and  politics.  He  was  too  much 
the  sentimentalist,  that  was  it. 

He  was  kicking  away  on  his  job-press  when  Hem- 
minger,  the  recalcitrant  board  member,  came  in.  Hem- 
minger  was  from  a  lonely  backwoods  district  up  the 
river  whose  people,  from  poor  roads  and  isolation, 
rarely  came  to  town.  He  paid  a  back  subscription, 
and  had  a  rambling  budget  of  news  from  the  home 
folk.  And,  as  always,  the  editor  listened  sympathetic 
ally,  and,  with  thoughts  far  away,  answered  at  times. 

There  was  a  whaling  corn  crop  and  it  was  mostly 
out  of  the  way  of  frost.  And  the  late  pasture  was  dry 
ing  up,  and  some  folks  were  going  to  ship  their  hogs. 
Some  folks  would,  but  danged  if  he  would !  Some  of 
his  land,  where  it  ran  up  in  the  bluff,  hadn't  done  much 
and  he  was  going  to  turn  in  his  hogs  and  let  'em  take 
the  yield.  Dinged  if  he  knew  what  was  the  matter 
with  that  land ! 

Wiley  listened.  Then  he  took  a  handful  of  pam 
phlets  from  his  desk.  "Ever  see  these,  Burt  ?  Govern 
ment  reports?  Maybe  your  land  is  too  sour?" 

Hemminger  was  incredulous.  Book  farming  wasn't 
much ! 

"I  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  said  Wiley  suddenly.  "Next 
time  Arne  Vance  comes  back  from  the  agricultural 
school,  I'll  get  him  and  drive  up  there  and  he  can 
analyze  your  soil." 

Hemminger's  pale  eyes  shone.     "Would  you,  now? 


144  THE    MIDLANDERS 

You're  a  busy  man,  Mr.  Curran — runnin'  fur  congress 
and  all !" 

"I  want  to  see  you  all." 

"Sure.  Folks  would  be  delighted.  Nobody  comes 
up  our  way  much.  Up  our  way  the  wimmen  still  boil 
soap — we  ain't  much  on  newfangled  ways  up  on 
Broad  Bottoms.  But  if  Jake  Vance's  boy'd  come — we 
— we'd  all  meet  somewheres  and  have  coffee — and  you 
could  talk  to  us,  too,  Mr.  Curran !" 

Wiley  watched  him  with  a  sudden  awakening  hope. 
"Do  your  folks  like  me  up  there,  Burt?  'Way  out 
in  the  bottom  districts  ?" 

"You  come  up  our  way.  It's  a  right  lonesome  coun 
try.  But  we  know  you,  Mr.  Curran.  You  remember 
the  time  you  got  Abe  Smith's  boy  out  o'  jail?" 

Mr.  Curran's  mind  went  vaguely  back  five  years. 

"Our  folks  talk  about  that  yit!  Abe's  boy  hadn't 
done  much  but  git  too  much  on  board.  And  you  got 
him  out  and  sent  him  home !" 

Hemminger  was  stuffing  the  government  crop  re 
ports  in  his  pocket.  "If  you'd  come,  Mr.  Curran,  folks 
would  be  proud.  The  News,  they  say  up  our  way,  it's 
never  scared  and  it's  never  bought.  And  Abe  Smith's 
boy — well,  you  come  up  !" 

He  went  out,  and  when  the  editor  saw  his  farm 
wagon  rumble  over  the  crossing  his  face  was  lit  with 
a  fine  glow.  Wiley  wondered  what  he  had  said  or 
done  to  bring  Hemminger  out  of  his  despond — he  had 
come  in  beaten  and  humiliated  from  the  supervisors' 
meeting, — the  lone  board  insurgent  against  the  Tan 
ner  dominance  over  the  rich  farmers  of  the  southern 
part  of  the  county.  Curran  saw  him  away  off,  when 


THE    BEAUTY    PRIZE  145 

he  went  up  the  path  to  the  cottage  where  Aunt  Abby's 
lamp  shone — a  lonely  figure  seated  in  a  rude  wagon 
that  crawled  up  a  gap  of  the  bluff  to  the  north  between 
the  somber  harshness  of  the  corn  fields — a  blur,  fainter, 
drawing  into  the  dusk,  lost  in  the  immensity  of  the 
dun  earth,  the  autumn  sky. 

An  hour  later  Curran  was  chopping  his  kindling  by 
the  fence.  A  drop  of  cold  rain  came  out  of  the  scud 
of  cloud.  Another — the  vast  bend  of  the  uplands  was 
lost  in  a  gray  veil,  and  he  could  hear  the  patter  of 
drops  on  the  tar-paper  roof  of  his  shop.  He  stood 
for  a  moment  in  the  enrobing  night,  listening  to  this 
lulling  murmur,  the  great  dried  lands  sucking  in  the 
water,  enriching  themselves.  The  sear  pastures  would 
green,  the  black  corn  bottoms  and  the  fall  sowing  of 
the  wheat  would  lave  themselves  and  rest  until  the 
freeze  came.  And  slowly  it  seemed  to  Curran  that 
never  had  he  loved  it  all  before.  The  fat  Midlands, 
the  never-hungered  country !  Here  were  the  best  men 
and  women.  Afar  in  the  glut  of  the  cities  of  which  he 
had  dreamed,  of  which  he  remembered,  the  future 
might  be  hideous  with  wrong  and  hate ;  but  here  were 
the  best  people,  unhungered,  unfearing. 

He  was  carrying  in  the  wood  for  Aunt  Abby's  kitch 
en  box,  thinking  how  friendly  would  be  the  stove  glow 
after  this  wet  chill,  how  fine  his  eagerness  for  the  sup 
per;  the  kerosene  lamp  under  its  red  shade  upon  the 
table,  and  the  hale,  cheery  old  woman,  her  glasses  dim 
with  the  kettle  steam.  But  he  heard  a  wagon  stop,  a 
man's  gruff  voice  on  the  crossing  below  his  shop.  He 
watched  curiously  the  figure  come  up  the  hill  and  lean 
over  his  fence, 


146  THE   MIDLANDERS 

It  was  Hemminger,  the  lonely  and  defeated  farmer. 
His  pale  eyes  shone  in  the  lamplight  from  the  window. 

"I  just  thought  I'd  come  back  to  say,  Mr.  Curran," 
he  blurted,  "that  you  ain't  no  money  much  or  any 
way  of  gittin'  about  for  congress.  Well,  our  folks 
can  drive  you  about  all  over  the  county,  some  takin' 
turns  and  then  passin'  you  on,  so's  you  see  everybody. 
See  everybody!  And  live  right  among  us.  Then  when 
you  git  to  Washington,  folks'll  kind  of  own  you !"  He 
brushed  the  wet  off  his  cotton  sleeve — "I  just  thought 
I'd  drive  back  and  tell  you.  It's  our  folks'  way." 

Then  he  was  gone  out  in  the  night,  the  clatter  of 
his  wagon  coming  down  the  hill  road,  until  the  falling 
rain  drowned  the  sound  of  wheels. 

Curran  went  in,  piled  his  wood,  and  stood  before 
the  cook-stove,  watching  dreamily  the  fire,  heedless  that 
he  was  in  the  housekeeper's  way.  She  bantered  him, 
and  suddenly  he  kissed  her,  holding  down  her  fat  arms 
as  she  laughed,  astounded,  shining-eyed.  This  was 
unlike  Wiley ;  he,  the  dilettante,  who  never  quite  gave 
himself  to  anything.  He  began  to  reason  absently 
over  the  faith,  the  friendliness,  the  goodness  he  seemed 
to  have  found  about  him  so  curiously.  Love,  that  was 
it.  He  had  awakened ;  and  all  about  him  had  awak 
ened,  discovering  good  in  him. 


CHAPTER  X 

ROLLING  STONES  GATHER  MOSS 
/ 

THE  following  week  Rome  had  another  sensation. 
The  McFetridge  twins  came  back.  Now  the 
McFetridge  twins  belonged  to  an  older  and  not  easily 
relished  annal.  They  were  the  nephews  of  Old 
Mowry,  the  undertaker,  and  had  been  the  village  cut- 
ups  before  they  inherited  the  Carmichael  livery-stables. 
But  even  a  livery-stable  did  not  reform  them,  and 
promptly,  on  attaining  their  majority,  they  sold  the 
stable  and  went  off,  to  the  relief  of  all  Rome. 

What  deviltry  Hen  McFetridge  did  not  think  of  in 
his  'teens,  Ben  did.  They  had  been  a  pillar  of  red  neck 
ties  by  night  and  a  cloud  of  bad  cigar  smoke  by  day 
on  the  drug-store  corner,  since  they  spent  their  patri 
mony  trying  to  develop  racers  in  the  period  when  all 
Iowa  went  mad  over  trotting  and  built  a  mile  track 
in  every  county  and  paid  fabulous  prices  for  mares 
and  drivers — the  days  of  Allerton  and  Axtell  and  Bud 
Doble.  But  the  fleet-limbed  Morgans  have  long  since 
given  place  to  Percherons  and  Clydesdales,  and  the 
mile  tracks  are  innocuous  county  fairs,  or  raising  corn 
to-day;  and  with  the  passing  of  the  trotting  craze 
passed  Hen  and  Ben  McFetridge,  bankrupt  at  twenty- 
one. 

Occasional  rumor  and  reminiscences  of  the  McFet- 
147 


148  THE    MIDLANDERS 

ridge  boys  came  out  of  the  West  as  other  sons  re 
turned,  but  one  bleak  day  Hen  and  Ben,  rotund  and 
forty,  same  red  neckties  and  bad  cigars,  were  discov 
ered  in  front  of  Carmichael's  relating  a  tale  of  Aladdin 
to  Rube  Van  Hart,  the  broken-down  league  player. 
They  had  registered  at  the  Parsons  House,  slapped 
Miss  Amelia  on  the  shoulder,  dropped  their  real  alli 
gator-skin  cases  and  walked  around  the  Square  into 
every  store  and  office :  up-stairs  to  Vawter,  the  artist ; 
blithely  into  the  back  room  of  Cal  Rice,  president  of 
the  First  National;  and  to  Uncle  Howry's,  Dickin 
son's  grocery  and  all  through  the  court-house,  bring 
ing  a  presence  of  freckles,  good  living,  diamond  pins 
and  dizziness.  They  saw  everybody,  "jollied"  every 
body — within  two  hours  every  one  in  town  knew  the 
McFetridge  boys  had  struck  it  rich. 

"Same  old  town,  Ben,"  said  Hen. 

"Same,  Hen,"  answered  Ben.  "Let's  go  over  to 
Wiley's  and  get  something  in  the  News  about  us." 

But  Wiley  was  off  trying  to  collect  bills.  He  did 
not  see  the  McFetridge  boys  until  he  went  to  the  Mac 
cabees'  supper  at  Odd  Fellows'  Hall  that  evening. 
There,  with  Old  Mowry,  in  his  long  black  coat  and 
white  tie,  at  the  door,  were  Hen  and  Ben,  a  self-con 
stituted  reception  committee  for  the  ladies.  Wiley  was 
always  invited  to  lodge  functions  and  affairs  of  the 
sort  because,  for  his  share  of  chocolate  cake  and  coffee 
and  ice-cream  he  would  have  something  about  it  in 
next  week's  "News'  Notes  of  a  Busy  Day."  He  had 
heard  that  the  twins  hadn't  changed  a  bit,  except  to 
get  fat,  and  Hen's  diamond  was  in  a  horseshoe  pin, 
while  Ben's  was  set  in  a  real  and  immense  nugget. 


ROLLING    STONES    GATHER    MOSS       149 

Hen  and  Ben  slapped  him  on  the  back  simultaneous 
ly  and  spilled  coffee  over  his  best  trousers. 

"Hello,  Wiley — you  old  gazabe!" 

"Still  running  the  old  sheet,  Wiley,  that  the  old 
man  used  to  chase  us  out  of?" 

"Yes.  Hello,  Hen— Hello,  Ben !  Yes,  I'm  making 
out  about  the  same  !" 

"Poor  sledding,  eh  ?  Hear  Cal  Rice  and  Old  Thad 
bumped  you  when  they  arranged  to  have  the  Earlville 
papers  get  over  here  for  early  delivery.  Say,  heard 
about  us  in  oil?" 

"Yes." 

"Big.  Tulare  fields,  California.  Hen  and  me  was 
beating  it  from  one  water-tank  to  another  one  day — 
flippered,  both  of  us.  Cleaned  out  in  the  dray  business 
in  Fresno.  Well,  Hen  and  me  coming  down  a  caiion 
along  the  track  about  dark,  saw  some  cow  tracks. 
Now,  we  saw  the  stars  shining  up  out  of  those  cow 
tracks.  Wiley,  if  it  had  been  you  that's  all  you  would 
have  seen,  just  stars  shining  back  from  them  cow 
tracks.  But  Hen  and  me  saw  oil." 

"Ben  and  me  prospected,  and  lit  for  town  and  en 
tered  that  whole  blamed  cow  pasture.  Then  we  went 
to  Los  Angeles,  where  all  the  easy  marks  in  the  United 
States  come  out,  and  we  capitalized  them  cow  tracks. 
Say,  we  got  more  engraved  certificates  of  stock  than 
you  can  shake  a  stick  at  sluing  round  California  this 
very  minute." 

"Did  they  bite?"  put  in  Ben— "couldn't  keep  'em  off 
with  a  club!" 

"Crazy  about  us/'  said  Hen — "us  and  the  cow 
tracks.  We  organized,  and  sold  more  stock  for  de- 


150  THE    MIDLANDERS 

velopment,  and  blew  it  in;  and  whenever  we  wanted 
more  money  we  assessed  the  stock  and  got  it.  Final 
ly  the  whole  company  blew  up — Hen  was  president, 
and  they  said  they  didn't  want  a  president  who  spent 
all  his  presidential  time  at  the  girl  shows  in  Los." 

Hen  looked  at  Ben — "Was  it  good,  Ben?" 

Ben  looked  at  Hen — "Was  it,  Hen  ?  We  made  those 
reorganizers  buy  us  out  at  five  hundred  thou.  Good — 
what,  Hen?" 

"Cow  tracks  for  mine,"  sighed  Hen. 

"First  thing  Hen  says  was:  'Let's  beat  it  to  the 
old  town  back  in  Iowa  and  show  'em  we  got  the 
money/  We  climbed  into  a  Pullman  at  Los  and  Hen 
gives  the  nigger  ten  dollars  to  buy  a  paper.  'Keep 
the  change,  nigger,'  says  Hen,  'we're  going  back  to 
see  the  old  town.'  " 

Wiley  smiled.  "I'm  glad  you  did  so  well."  He 
sighed,  stilling  a  resentment  against  fortune.  He,  too, 
had  swung  the  circle  of  the  West  and  was  back  to  the 
old  town.  And  oh,  what  the  McFetridge  half-million 
would  have  done  if  he  had  found  it!  But  they  were 
right.  Wiley  would  have  seen  only  stars  in  the  cow 
tracks — he  never  saw  anything  but  stars,  some  way  or 
other.  But  he  smiled  cordially:  "It's  great,  boys. 
Come  round  to  the  News  to-morrow  and  see  me." 

"Sure.  We  want  some  stuff  in  the  papers  about  us. 
Who's  doing  the  Earlville  Mercury- Journal  corre 
spondence  ?" 

"Miss  Amelia  Parsons." 

"Oh,  lord !"  cried  Hen — "we're  on — big  as  a  house ! 
We'll  have  a  two-column  cut  made  of  us  and  shove  it 
in.  Maybe  you  can  use  one  in  the  News,  too." 


ROLLING   STONES    GATHER    MOSS      151 

"Surely."  Wiley  laughed — since  the  days  when  they 
and  Rube  Van  Hart  and  all  the  kids  batted  flies  on 
the  Neivs  lot  he  had  enjoyed  the  McFetridges. 

"Same  old  town,  Wiley." 

"Same  old  town,  Hen." 

"What  it  needs  is  a  few  funerals.  Maybe  some  of 
'em  will  drop  dead  when  they  know  Ben  and  me  got 
money.  Where  can  a  man  get  a  drink  in  this  town 
easiest?" 

Wiley  looked  at  Rube  Van  Hart.  Rube  winked  at 
Wiley.  The  Maccabees  were  cluttering  up  the  hall 
with  cake  and  conversation,  and  Old  Mowry  and 
Hicks,  the  expressman,  with  their  enormous  reception 
badges  of  white  satin  and  wired  roses,  were  enough 
for  a  welcome  committee.  Rube  winked  at  Wiley, 
and  the  four  went  out  and  down-stairs. 

"I'll  bet,"  said  Hen  to  Ben,  "that  there's  been  as 
much  bootleg  booze  drunk  at  Carmichael's  stable  since 
we  sold  out  as  before,  and  that's  going  some." 

Rube  arranged  a  row  of  beer  bottles  along  the  side 
of  a  horse  stall  after  an  errand  to  the  hay.  "Shut  the 
door,"  he  said :  "the  Methodists  are  coming  home 
from  Mrs.  Blake's,  and  Carmichael's  trying  to  corral 
an  agreement  with  'em  to  do  all  the  hauling  for  the 
assembly  next  summer.  Carmichael's  wife  is  going  to 
join  'em  to  cinch  it!" 

"Oh,  lord !"  roared  Ben,  "same  old  town !" 

"We'll  throw  a  fit  into  'em,"  said  Hen :  "watch  us." 

Rube  and  Wiley  drank  their  beer  and  listened.  Poor 
old  Rube,  who  once  had  batted  .40x3  with  the  Cubs, 
and  was  now  chambermaid  to  Carmichael's  horses; 
and  Wiley  T.  Curran,  who  had  the  ink  on  his  hands 


152  THE   MIDLANDERS 

of  a  three  dollar  and  twenty-five  cent  printing  job  from 
the  Gem  Restaurant !  They  listened  hungrily  to  all  this 
magic — they,  too,  had  come  back  to  the  old  town ! 

"Say,"  went  on  Hen,  after  all  the  West  had  been 
rehearsed,  "we  got  a  scheme  that's  a  wonder.  We're 
going  to  buy  the  tin  opera-house." 

"Crazy  about  the  show  business,"  added  Ben. 

"Why,  these  old  zooks  here  don't  know  they're 
alive,"  continued  Hen.  "What  do  they  get  here  ?  Swiss 
Bell  Ringers  and  Flint,  the  Hypnotist,  or  some  dead 
one  with  a  picture  show  on  art,  that  these  women's 
clubs  round  up.  If  you  want  to  go  to  a  show  you  got 
to  go  to  Earlville,  and  the  blamed  cars  stop  at  eleven- 
fifteen.  Now  ain't  that  nice  for  a  man  with  a  girl? 
Suppose  he  wants  to  pull  off  a  little  eat  after  the 
show?" 

"Oh,  my  Aunt  Maria!"  whispered  Wiley  softly. 
"Where— this  side  of  Chicago  ?" 

"Leave  it  to  us.  We  had  more  fun  out  in  'Frisco 
with  the  show  business  than  anything  you  ever  heard 
of.  These  actors  and  managers  think  they're  wise, 
and  they  did  get  some  of  our  money,  but  we  got  our 
fun.  Backed  one  show  and  it  broke  up  for  twenty 
thousand — but  that's  all  right.  You  see  there's  always 
a  lot  of  phony  shows  around  waiting  to  be  financed, 
and  when  Hen  and  me  sail  in  like  two  little  angels 
from  the  long  uncut,  they  can't  do  enough  for  us.  And 
when  we've  had  all  the  fun  we  want  we  cut  the  string, 
and  down  comes  the  show — flop !" 

Wiley's  face  looked  vacant.  Rube  rubbed  his  aure 
ate  nose. 

"Four  shows  now  out  on  the  coast  wondering  what 


ROLLING   STONES    GATHER   MOSS      153 

has  become  of  their  little  angels,"  said  Hen — "but 
what's  the  use  ?  We  wanted  to  see  the  old  town !" 

"What  the  old  town  needs,"  went  on  Ben,  "is  a 
silver  cornet  band,  a  semi-pro  ball  team,  and  a  few 
hot  shows  in  the  tin  opera-house." 

"You  can  buy  it  of  the  Gamble  estate  for  two  thou 
sand,"  said  Rube. 

"Listen.  Got  something  more  than  that.  Morris 
Feldman,  over  at  the  ten-twenty  Main  Street  House  in 
Earlville,  was  telling  me  about  this  girl  who  won  the 
Chronicle  beauty  prize.  Why,  he  says  when  she  goes 
to  Chicago  the  vaudeville  managers  will  be  climbing 
over  one  another  to  sign  her !  Morris  went  out  to  see 
her,  and  old  Lindstrom  chased  him  over  the  fence  with 
a  gun,  and  then  prayed  for  his  soul  because  he  couldn't 
shoot  him.  Leave  it  to  a  Jew  to  take  care  of  his  hide. 
Morris  finished  his  interview  with  the  cowshed  be 
tween  him  and  the  Dane,  but  he  says  we  just  got  to  get 
that  girl." 

"Get  her?"   Wiley  looked  startled.     "You  mean—" 

"Sign  her,  and  put  a  show  out.  Morris  Feldman 
says  he's  found  a  man  with  a  piece,  and  all  they  need's 
the  money.  And  they  tell  me  around  town  that  this 
little  girl's  having  a  tough  time  of  it.  All  these  High 
Street  zooks  won't  look  at  her — the  Shakespeare  Club 
gang  and  all  them." 

"Yes,"  murmured  Wiley,  "it's  true.  She's  not  very 
happy  over  it  all." 

"Is  she  pretty  as  the  papers  tout  her?" 

"Yes.    Isn't  she,  Rube?" 

"All  the  way.  If  she  coached  along  the  side-lines 
with  me  pitchin',  I'd  be  rattled  clear  out  of  the  box." 


154  THE    MIDLANDERS 

"It's  a  shame,"  said  Ben,  "if  she  ain't  got  a  chance ! 
Ain't  it,  Hen?" 

"It  is.  We  read  that  paper  and  we  says :  'Little  girl, 
the  twins'll  stake  you  with  their  last  cow  track !'  " 

"You  mean,"  retorted  Wiley,  staring  at  them,  "that 
you're  going  to  back  Aurelie  Lindstrom  to  go  on  the 
stage?" 

"You  guessed  it  the  first  rattle."  Hen  looked  at 
Wiley  with  the  pity  of  the  money-getter  for  the 
dreamer ;  and  Wiley  looked  at  Hen  with  the  reserve  of 
the  idealist  for  the  vulgarian.  He  had  his  old  feeling 
of  doubt  when  he  encountered  men  of  action ;  the  in- 
drawing  indecision,  at  times,  made  him  revile  himself 
as  a  weakling. 

Aurelie !  Aurelie,  with  her  hurt  pride,  her  love  that 
was  a  tragedy,  her  wild  beating  of  life  against  her 
bars !  Not  yet  had  she  more  than  dimly  grasped  her 
fame — not  more  than  that,  East  and  W7est,  last  Sunday, 
some  twenty  million  blowsy  breakfast-feeders  had 
propped  the  supplement  up  against  the  sugar  urn,  and 
over  their  coffee  and  chops,  had  scrutinized  her  full- 
sheet  presentment — that  careless  Egyptian  face  up 
turned,  the  leaves  and  blossoms  in  her  hair,  the  simple 
gown  betraying  her  slender  rounded  throat — scruti 
nized,  grunted;  read  the  "lead"  of  the  story,  grunted 
again ;  and  turned  to  another  roll  and  the  "pink  un" 
to  scan  the  football  scores. 

But  off  somewhere,  the  gilded  world  had  called  her. 
The  letters  she  got  by  hundreds,  the  congratulations 
and  inquiries,  curious  and  kindly,  envious  and  ingra 
tiating,  warned  her.  A  New  York  manufacturer 
wanted  to  use  her  face  on  his  tooth-powder  boxes — that 


ROLLING   STONES    GATHER   MOSS      155 

was  the  worst  she  knew  of.  And  John  Lindstrom,  in 
a  rage,  had  seized  most  of  her  mail  and  burned  it  and 
forbidden  her  intercourse  with  the  town.  She  had 
gone  about  in  a  dream,  some  ineffable  heartsickness, 
which  Harlan  had  left  with  her — she  fought  it  rebcl- 
liously  with  pride  and  anger  and  sullen  silences.  When 
she  made  one  trip  to  town  she  tossed  her  small  head 
along  High  Street,  conscious  that  every  household 
hastened  to  the  windows  to  see  her.  "There  goes  Au- 
relie  Lindstrom — the  first  time  she's  been  out  since  it 
happened !" 

"It"  was  spoken  of  in  the  best  families  as  one  would 
speak  of  a  surgical  operation.  But  even  her  former 
schoolmates  didn't  banter  her — she  went  past  them  with 
hardly  more  than  a  nod,  and  they  fell  back  to  discuss 
her  status,  her  looks,  her  possibilities — she  couldn't  be 
as  handsome  as  Vawter's  silly  picture  made  her ! 

Wiley  lounged  into  Miss  Vance's  office  in  the  court 
house  the  next  morning  after  the  arrival  of  the  twins. 
They  saw  Aurelie  go  into  Dickinson's  store,  her  red 
dress  a  brave  bit  of  flame.  Mr.  Curran  sighed,  looking 
at  Janet's  firm  pen  scratching  its  way  across  a  district 
requisition  paper.  "Poor  little  girl!"  he  said,  "I'm 
desperately  sorry !" 

Miss  Vance's  cool  gray  eyes  lifted :  "Why  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Only  I'm  beginning  to  think  as 
Harlan  did — the  whole  thing  is  horribly  vulgar.  I 
never  knew  Aurelie  much  before — but  she's  been  at 
the  shop.  I — I've  met  her" — he  looked  away  frowning 
at  his  own  tremor — "she  hasn't  an  idea  of  what  to  do — 
and  there  were  six  proposals  of  marriage  in  Saturday's 
mail!" 


156  THE   MIDLANDERS 

Miss  Vance  scratched  on:  "I  should  think  much 
good  might  come  of  it.  As  for  vulgarity,  it  couldn't  be 
much  worse  than  her  surroundings  before.  I  hope 
something  comes  of  it  for  her." 

"I'm  afraid  it'll  spoil  her." 

"Not  necessarily.  Wiley,  it's  like  you  to  accept  it 
impractically." 

"Why,  the  whole  town's  laughing  at  her.  And 
here  the  McFetridge  boys  with  their  ridiculous 
scheme — " 

"Why?" 

Wiley  subsided.  Janet  was  always  squelching  him. 
"Well,"  he  ruminated,  "for  a  week  she  made  the  old 
town  famous — it  figured  in  a  Chicago  date-line  six 
times,  and  the  photographers  came  and  snapped  Lind- 
strom's  shack,  and  the  Sinsinawa  bridge,  and  the 
North  Side  school  where  she  used  to  go,  and" — Wiley 
got  up  and  sighed — "well,  Amelia  Parsons  says  the 
notoriety  to  Rome  was  shocking,  and  the  Shakespeare 
Club  ought  to  pass  resolutions  deploring  the  whole 
business !" 

"Probably  they  will.  They  deplored  my  election  also. 
If  Aurelie  can  go  and  do  anything  that  otherwise  she'd 
never  had  the  remotest  chance  of  doing,  I  approve. 
Miss  Conway  said  she  was  a  very  bright  child  in  the 
eighth  grade.  And  she  certainly  has  appealed  to  your 
sentimental  self." 

"Eh,  well !"  He  shrugged.  "Janet,  the  whole  thing 
hit  me!  The  little  girl  is  a  deal  like  myself,  I  fancy. 
A  soul  in  bonds.  I  was,  Janet — you  remember?"  He 
raised  his  hand  to  the  October  hills.  "I  had  to  go  off 
foot  free  and  wander  and  see  it  all.  Something  beyond 


ROLLING    STONES    GATHER    MOSS      157 

all  this.  Aurelie's  suddenly  awakened,  too,  out  of  her 
bitterness — her  love — "  he  checked  himself  and  sighed. 
"I  can  understand  all  that,  Janet.  My  world  was 
gilded  splendidly — and  it  is  yet,  you  know.  I  can't  get 
over  it." 

"Is  it  true — these  proposals  of  marriage  she  gets?" 
pursued  Miss  Vance  impersonally. 

"Rot !  Even  Aurelie  laughs — and  tears  'em  up !  A 
lot  of  people  bother  her,  indeed.  But  she's  a  sturdy 
little  soul  with  a  terrible  simplicity  and  directness. 
Wants  to  be  somebody — wants  to  be  somebody!  God 
bless  the  kid — I  can  understand !" 

"Wants  to  be  somebody!"  Janet  watched  him 
shrewdly.  "And  you?  Wiley,  I  took  you  at  your 
word — you're  going  to  run  for  congress." 

"Janet!" 

"I  had  luncheon  with  Governor  Delroy  up  in  Des 
Moines  last  week.  Now,  please — please — this  is  not 
for  the  News,  remember !  I  told  him  you  had  prom 
ised  to  lead  his  forlorn  hope  in  this  district." 

"Janet,  I  never  held  an  office  in  my  life !" 

"Neither  did  Delroy  until  he  rebelled  up  there  in  the 
North!"  She  arose  and  came  swiftly  to  him.  "Wiley, 
I've  been  all  over  the  county  in  my  school  work,  and 
all  over  the  district  at  the  institutes,  and  I  say  the  time 
has  come!  You  don't  know  the  restlessness  against 
Congressman  Hall  and  this  old  regime.  Some  live 
forceful  man  is  going  to  seize  the  chance  and  ride  on 
it  to  success,  and  oh,  Wiley,  I  want  it  to  be — you!" 

"You  lunched  with  Delroy?    You — discussed — me?" 

"Yes.  He  was  eager  to  know  of  you — he'd  watched 
your  editorials." 


158  THE   MIDLANDERS 

Wiley  looked  quizzically  at  her.  Janet  lunching  with 
Delroy,  the  great  new  name  in  the  tumult  of  the  new 
politics!  Of  course  Delroy  knew  of  Janet.  The  last 
paper  she  read  to  the  state  teachers  on  a  radical  reor 
ganization  of  the  country  school  system,  and  the  way 
she  forced  a  favorable  resolution  through  the  institute 
against  the  opposition  of  the  state  superintendent,  had 
attracted  every  one's  attention.  And  Delroy,  the  hand 
some,  dashing,  bachelor  governor — of  course  Janet 
Vance  would  attract  him.  He  would  be  glad  to  listen 
to  a  woman  who  had  twice  been  elected  against  the 
hostile  conservatism  of  a  Reserve  county  to  her  super- 
intendency. 

Curran  sighed.    "Janet,  I  couldn't  afford  it." 

"Suppose  your  campaign  could  be  financed — "  her 
cool  business  smile  was  on  him.  And  then  her  enthu 
siasm  broke  past  it.  "Oh,  Wiley,  it's  a  big  game !  A 
man's  game!  I  never  was  so  interested  as  in  what 
father  and  Arne  tell  me,  and  what  I  see  is  going  on 
over  the  county  !  And  you're  going  to  be  in  it !  I  told 
Delroy  so!  They'll  build  his  organization  on  you  and 
your  fight  down  here — they're  eager  to  break  in,  and 
the  county  so  needs  leadership !" 

He  smiled,  but  he  felt  the  inward  tremor  of  the  man 
who  is  conscious  of  his  limitations  of  daily  nervous 
force.  The  need  of  care  of  it  had  held  him  from  many 
a  crucial  effort,  that  supreme  hazard  of  fortune;  for 
the  physical  integer,  after  all,  is  the  factor  of  success. 
He  had  tried  to  tell  himself  that  youth  was  done,  its 
visions,  its  nobleness,  its  lechery ;  its  easy  purity,  which 
is  virtue  untempted ;  and  its  evil,  which  is  ignorance  of 
good.  But  of  late  had  come  his  rebirth,  the  surge  of 


ROLLING    STONES    GATHER    MOSS      159 

aspiration  and  fine  hope  to  the  shallows  of  his  life. 
Now,  with  the  prodigal  years  done,  should  come  a 
man's  real  work. 

He  reached  across  the  desk  for  Janet's  hands.  "Girl, 
I'll  do  it.  You  can  tell  them  so.  I'll  make  the  fight!" 

She  threw  back  her  strong  shoulders  laughing,  the 
tears  in  her  eyes.  "That's  all  I  want  to  know!  Just 
to  hear  you  speak  that  way,  Wiley!  I'm  going  to 
telegraph  Delroy,  and  Schemmerhorn  of  the  state  cen 
tral  committee,  and  call  up  Mr.  Purcell — and  father!" 

He  was  amazed  as  she  arose  with  that  imperious  in 
cision  of  hers  and  went  out.  Janet  had  always  left 
him  gathering  his  wits — perhaps  that  was  one  reason 
why — well,  he  never  could  analyze  his  admiration  for 
Janet. 

He  was  at  his  job-press  that  afternoon,  when  Hen 
and  Ben  McFetridge  drove  up  in  a  begilded  motor. 
With  them  was  a  fresh-faced  young  Hebrew  who  was 
introduced  as  Morris  Feldman  of  the  Majestic  Theater. 

"And" — continued  Hen — "we  got  the  little  girl  all 
right!" 

"Got  her?"  Wiley  looked  up. 

"Your  prize  winner.  Old  man  was  up  in  the  woods 
with  his  dogs,  chopping  brush,  and  the  old  lady  was 
off  somewhere,  and  we  talked  with  the  girl.  Told  her 
we  were  going  to  put  her  out  with  a  show  and  she 
most  dropped  dead." 

"I  should  think  she  would !"  gasped  Wiley. 

"She'll  get  used  to  our  ways,"  continued  Hen — 
"heavy  on  the  job— eh,  Ben?" 

"Right  there — eh,  Hen?"  said  Ben.  "Morris,  here, 
has  been  trying  to  see  Miss  Lindstrom  for  a  week,  but 


160  THE   MIDLANDERS 

he  was  afraid  of  the  dogs.  But  the  minute  he  handed 
her  a  line  of  conversation  we  had  her.  He's  got  a 
man  in  Dubuque  so  crazy  about  this  prize-beauty  busi 
ness  that  he  wrote  a  play  about  it.  Morris  says  all  the 
people  up  the  valley  are  crazy  about  it — and  it  shows 
what  a  dead  one  this  town  is.  We  can  play  up  and 
down  the  state  and  get  on  to  the  Meyer  &  Sammet 
circuit  later  .  .  .  say,  think  of  the  paper  we  can 
get  out — three-sheet  stuff  and  the  window  stuff :  'Miss 
Aurelie  Lindstrom,  the  $100,000  Prize  Beauty  Winner.' 
Some  class,  eh,  Hen?" 

"Got  the  'Frisco  Morning-glory  Bunch  skinned  a 
mile,"  said  Hen. 

"You're  crazy !"  retorted  Wiley. 

"Crazy,  maybe,"  said  Ben — "but  we  got  her  name 
on  a  contract." 

"But  she  can't  act !" 

"Don't  need  to,"  said  young  Mr.  Feldman.  "No 
body  has  to  know  how  to  act — it's  all  in  the  line  of 
dope  you  put  over.  Hand  out  some  bunk  that  the  pub 
lic  is  crazy  about  and  they'll  eat  it.  And  this  girl's  got 
it — biggest  paper  in  the  West  has  been  spreading  on 
her  for  two  weeks  now.  It's  a  pippin.  I  wanted  to 
bite  myself  when  she  signed  up.  Steinman  &  Franks 
were  after  her,  too — they  were  going  to  have  a  man 
down  here  from  Chicago  to-day." 

"Those  big  vaudeville  people?  I  guess,  if  she's  go 
ing  in  the  business  at  all,  she  ought  to  have  gone  with 
them." 

"Leave  it  to  us,"  retorted  Hen.  "Morris  read  this 
here  play  to  us  last  night — four  acts,  and  in  the  third 
they  blow  up  the  mill." 


ROLLING   STONES    GATHER   MOSS      161 

Mr.  Curran  sat  down  on  the  platform:  "Hen,  are 
you  in  earnest?" 

"Going  to  clean  up  the  state.  Morris  got  an  option 
on  a  lot  of  scenery  that  was  made  for  the  Millie  the 
Model  company;  and  it  blew  up,  and  the  stuff's  in 
Dubuque  stored.  And  wait  till  you  see  our  paper. 
Morris,  here,  telegraphed  for  his  booking  agent  to  pick 
up  some  people.  All  to  the  candy — eh,  Ben  ?" 

"Right  there,"  said  Ben.  "And  if  this  Millie  the 
Model  scenery  doesn't  fit  Hanbury's  piece,  he's  willing 
to  rewrite  the  play  to  fit  the  scenery." 

Wiley  sighed :  "Hen,  you  and  Ben  are  wonders !" 

"No,  we're  out  for  the  coin  this  trip.  And  to  give 
that  little  girl  a  chance.  Honest,"  continued  Hen 
thoughtfully,  "she's  got  me  going.  And  besides  Ben 
and  me  got  fifty  thousand  dollars  of  Tulare  oil  stock 
to  unload  and  we  thought  maybe  if  we  spread  on  this 
show,  it'll  advertise  us." 

Wiley  looked  his  concern.  "Now,  it's  all  straight, 
Wiley,"  went  on  Hen,  "and  you  can  say  so  in  your 
little  old  sore-backed  newspaper.  Morris,  here,  will 
give  you  a  column  of  dope  that  will  make  this  old 
town  weak  in  the  pins." 

Still  Wiley  hesitated ;  he  was  supersensitive  to  a  de 
gree  about  anything  concerning  money  despite  his  un 
paid  bills.  "I — I — don't  like  it,  boys.  You  see  this 
girl — Well!"  he  floundered — for  an  instant  Harlan's 
name  was  on  his  lips  .  .  .  then,  after  all,  what  did 
he  ki>ow  of  Harlan  and  Aurelie?  He  went  on  dog 
gedly  :  "She's  a  good  little  girl,  Hen— after  all." 
;  "Bet  she  is,"  retorted  Hen— "and  I'm  going  to  see 
she  gets  her  chance." 


162  THE   MIDLANDERS 

The  editor  watched  the  machine  roll  up  High  Street. 
He  went  in  and  sat  at  his  old  desk,  and  lighted  his  old 
pipe,  and  stared  at  his  old  shop.  He  wished  that  some 
time  he  would  grow  up. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  DAUGHTER   OF   JEZEBEL 

HOLINESS  UNIVERSITY  was  a  square  new 
university  with  a  mansard  roof  two  miles  west 
of  Rome  on  the  Earlville  road.  It  was  softened  a  bit 
by  the  beautiful  campus  sloping  to  Sinsinawa  Creek, 
but  the  plaster  of  its  bricks  was  as  raw  as  its  cur 
riculum,  and  the  bricks  were  as  hard  as  its  faith.  It  is 
a  forlorn  county  of  Iowa  that  does  not  have  two  uni 
versities,  three  academies,  one  seminary,  and  a  Chau- 
tauqua,  for  every  migration  of  the  early  comers  brought 
its  own  theology  and  education,  from  the  Church  of 
the  Hollanders  to  the  Dunkards,  and  every  variety  of 
Protestantism ;  and  each  planted  the  seed  of  dispute 
and  thereafter,  as  the  fat  land  grew,  belabored  all 
classes  for  support  of  the  spindling  institutions. 

The  Holiness  Brethren  were  new  in  the  land,  but 
strong  of  voice  and  earnest.  Calvin  University,  which 
was  an  oblong  and  flat-roofed  university  three  miles 
south  of  town,  had  long  since  gone  to  seed,  rarely 
heard  from  except  on  rally  days  in  the  churches  when 
all  its  sixteen  faculty  and  sixty-four  undergraduates 
filled  the  edifices,  and  the  rally  was  a  tremendous  suc 
cess  in  hymn-singing  if  not  at  the  'contribution  plate. 
But  the  Holiness  Brethren,  who  had  come  from  some 
where,  no  one  knew  exactly  where,  and  preached  some- 

163 


164  THE    MIDLANDERS 

thing-,  no  one  knew  exactly  what,  had  the  zeal  of  the 
newly-inspired,  and  labored  in  highways  and  byways 
for  recruits.  It  had  a  community  of  quite  four  hun 
dred  souls  gathered  about  its  college  tract;  and  fifty 
students  who  alternately  farmed  and  studied  and  ex 
horted  in  the  streets  of  Rome  and  Earlville.  No  one 
had  a  grievance  against  the  Holiness  sect  except  Wiley 
T.  Curran,  and  his  was  because  they  had  taken  up  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  spots  on  Sinsinawa.  As  Mr. 
Curran  remarked,  it  was  as  if  some  one  had  first  wan 
dered  down  the  pebbly-footed  glen  and  said:  "Breth 
ren,  here  is  a  spot  which  nature  has  set  apart  for  the 
tired  soul  to  commune  in  silence  and  find  peace  with 
God — come,  let  us  get  a  crowd  and  have  somebody 
lecture/' 

John  Lindstrom  had  become  one  of  the  zealous  sect 
from  the  first ;  nothing  but  poverty  had  kept  him  from 
joining  the  Holiness  colony  up  on  the  hills,  and  his 
lowland  cottage  was  a  favorite  place  for  the  Brethren 
to  gather  for  prayer.  These  Sunday  afternoons  the 
children  sat  barelegged  and  silent  on  the  kitchen 
chairs,  their  frayed  denims  washed,  and  listened  in 
that  perplexed  and  enigmatical  respect  that  the  young 
give  to  religion.  The  first  Sunday  after  Aure- 
lie's  prize-winning  was  a  terrifying  one.  She  never 
would  attend  the  meetings,  and  the  Brethren  exhorted 
John  that  he  cast  out  the  devil  from  her,  put  away  this 
vanity  of  beauty,  this  Romish  and  heathen  perversion. 
As  if  Aurelie,  loving  idolatrously  her  little  crucifix 
without  bothering  her  head  as  to  what  it  meant,  could 
put  by  God's  gift  of  grace  and  prettiness. 

The  next  Sunday  she  ran  away  to  the  hills  and  met 


THE    DAUGHTER   OF   JEZEBEL        165 

Uncle  Michigan  there  by  arrangement,  for  the  old 
rebel,  eking  out  the  scanty  living  by  his  bootlegging, 
was  no  more  at  home  with  Lindstrom  than  the  Creole 
girl.  When  they  returned  the  old  man  delayed  at  a 
neighboring  quarryman's  house,  but  Aurelie  went  on  to 
their  door.  She  found  the  boys  sitting,  Sunday  clean, 
on  the  wood-box  behind  the  stove,  and  Mrs.  Lindstrom, 
who  cared  little  about  the  services  except  to  give  assent 
to  the  master,  was  putting  the  baby  to  bed.  She  turned 
a  constrained  face  out  of  the  chamber  to  see  the 
French  girl's  entry.  Aurelie,  wreathed  from  head  to 
foot  in  red  and  gold  maple  leaves  sewed  on  twine — 
that  was  their  Sunday  occupation  upon  the  bluff,  was 
it? 

Albert,  the  canvasser-pedler,  was  by  the  oilclothed 
table,  his  head  resting  on  his  palm,  the  shiny  celluloid 
cuff  with  its  immense  moonstone  button  enclosing  the 
stringy  sinew  of  his  arm.  The  Holiness  exhorting 
had  tired  him,  but  he  was  calculating  how  much  of  his 
miserable  earnings  he  could  contribute  to  the  family. 
Before  him  was  some  prospectus  of  a  patent  dish 
washer  with  which  he  was  going  to  tramp  the  towns 
and  country  with  his  whining  appeal,  his  fatuous  smile, 
his  eternal  door-bell  ringing  and  removing  of  his  hat 
to  the  impatient  wives.  He  had  a  faint  shy  affection 
for  Aurelie  in  his  cringing  soul ;  her  color,  her  life, 
her  graceful  courage,  were  like  some  bloom  of  a  tropic 
garden  to  his  aridness.  He  would  have  loved,  with  a 
dog's  love,  anything  that  did  not  rebuff  him,  turn  him 
away,  snarl  coldly,  shut  the  door  on  him,  so  crushed 
was  he  with  this  in  his  day's  work. 

Aurelie  felt  the  ominous  heaviness  of  John's  look, 


1 66  THE    MIDLANDERS 

but  she  was  strangely  gay.  She  came  past  the  pedler, 
touching  his  thin  hand  lightly.  "Mon  ami!"  she  bent 
her  head  with  quick  grace,  "you  look  tired — is  it  so? 
You  should  have  been  with  me — and  Knute,  too,  and 
Peter.  The  leaves — they  never  were  so  pretty !" 

She  crossed  to  the  silent  boys,  the  maple  wreaths 
rustling  on  her  gown.  "Eh,  Peter!  It's  all  from  the 
big  sugar  tree  where  we  killed  the  badger  last  winter — • 
and  you  froze  your  fingers  while  we  were  chopping." 
She  lifted  the  skirt  of  leaves  with  her  laughing: 
"Brother,  isn't  it  like  a  princess  on  me?" 

She  held  herself  to  be  admired  by  them.  Albert  put 
down  his  documents,  his  pale  eyes  shining.  This 
girl !  Catholic,  French,  rebel — God  knew  what — she 
stood  a  flame  in  the  dreariness  of  their  lives ! 

John  came  in,  took  off  his  rough  coat  and  hung  it 
behind  the  wood-box  over  the  boys'  heads.  His  gaunt 
face  was  heavy  in  the  light  of  the  little  lamp ;  he  came 
to  stand  before  Albert,  looking  down  at  the  pedler's 
pitiful  business. 

"And  what's  that  on  the  Lord's  day,  Albert,  man  ?" 
his  deep  voice  queried.  "It's  not  an  example  for  my 
children  after  prayers." 

The  pedler  sniveled  and  smirked  conciliatingly ; 
they  had  of  late  begun  to  fear  John's  Puritanism.  "Eh, 
the  business,  John!  I  was  just  casting  over  it  for 
to-morrow.  To  lay  out  my  route  beforehand,  that 
saves  a  sight  of  tramping,  and  it's  to  be  colder." 

"It's  no  work  for  the  day,"  growled  John.  "Didn't 
Brother  Rutherford  just  now  warn  us  against  such  un- 
holiness  ?"  He  turned  to  his  sons :  "Come,  Peter — 
Knute — it's  soon  to  bed  for  you.  Bring  in  the  kindling 


THE   DAUGHTER   OF   JEZEBEL        167 

and  be  off.''  He  was  not  unkindly — he  was  but  a  man 
in  whom  a  wrong  was  burning  its  way  steadily  to  a 
cloistered  and  spiritual  purity ;  the  law's  harsh  enigma, 
the  murk  of  his  day's  jailing — they  were  to  him  a 
martyr's  portion ;  they  had  set  him  apart  in  the  world ; 
God  had  smote  him  for  some  reason  or  other,  and  he 
accepted.  He  sat  watching  the  silent  urchins,  the 
mumbling  pedler  pulling  his  cuffs  down  over  his  thin 
wrists.  The  mother  passed  with  the  baby,  and  John 
put  a  hand  softly  to  its  head,  but  the  rasp  of  his  palm 
drew  a  sickly  wail.  He  drew  back  silently,  in  some 
pathos  at  his  failure.  When  she  had  gone  into  the 
chamber,  his  eyes  slowly  went  to  Aurelie,  whom  he 
could  see  before  the  mirror  of  her  little  white  dresser 
in  her  room.  She  was  patting  the  sugar  leaves  around 
her  shoulders,  admiring,  reluctant  to  take  them  off. 

"My  girl,"  John  called,  "come  here." 

She  did  not  move ;  he  saw  her  face  harden.  "Come 
here."  She  turned  and  looked  at  him.  "Aurelie,  1 
called  you,  girl." 

"What  is  it?"  But  at  his  silent  gazing  she  came 
out  obediently.  He  looked  again  long  at  her,  the 
daughter  of  Jezebel,  whose  eyes  did  not  fear  to  meet 
him.  "Where  have  you  been?" 

"In  the  hills." 

"Whom  did  you  meet?" 

"No  one.    Just  Uncle  Michigan  and  me." 

"I  heard  this  morning — and  Brother  Andrews  told 
me — that  you  were  on  the  creek  road  talking  with 
some  one  in  a  red  machine?" 

"Yes—this  morning."  She  did  not  falter ;  she  was 
as  stolid  as  he. 


1 68  THE   MIDLANDERS 

The  McFetridge  motor-car,  a  snorting,  grinning, 
scarlet  devil  charging,  of  a  Sunday,  about  the  stillness 
oi  the  roads — he  was  ruthless  in  his  analysis,  for  he 
knew.  "They  brought  you  home  from  town  this  morn 
ing — but  they  dared  not  come  to  the  door." 

"No,"  she  retorted.    "It  was  just  a  little  ride." 

"Ah,  Lord,"  the  wife  cried  from  the  chamber,  "the 
girl,  she'll  have  her  name  up  more  than  it  was !  The 
papers  and  all — Lord  save  us !  And  ridin'  with  a  Jew 
on  Sunday  morning!" 

"Be  still,"  John  went  on  stolidly.  "I  hear  more  than 
that.  Girl,  can  you  pray  with  us  all  to-night?" 

"Pi-ay?" 

"With  a  clean  soul?" 

She  looked  at  his  eyes,  the  deep  eyes  of  a  prophet, 
and  she  could  not  answer ;  she  paled  and  muttered,  and 
half-turned  to  look  at  the  little  rosary  hanging  over  the 
frame  of  her  dresser  among  her  trinkets. 

"I  hear,"  he  continued  with  an  awful  deliberation  as 
one  who  had  foreordained  his  judgment  and  his  course, 
"that  you  are  going  on  the  stage !" 

She  started — she  could  not  imagine  that  he  knew. 
And  yet  all  the  town  must  know,  must  be  amazed  at 
this  freak  of  the  McFetridge  twins.  "Papa  Lind- 
strom,"  she  said  with  a  sudden  brightness,  "will  you 
listen  to  me?  It  will  be  a  fine  thing  for  us  all — the 
money  I  can  make !" 

"Answer !"  he  shouted,  and  stung  the  table  with  his 
blow:  "the  truth!" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  steadily,  her  eyes  going  to 
hard  rebellion. 

"May  God  strike  you  dead  first !" 


THE    DAUGHTER   OF   JEZEBEL        169 

Knute  looked  up  dumb  and  shivering1.  The  mother 
put  her  head  from  the  bedroom.  "Ah,  John,"  she 
cried,  "she's  a  good  girl  with  it  all,  John!" 

"Be  still !"  he  said.  "This  beauty  of  hers— I'd  burn 
it  off  her  if  I  could."  He  got  up  and  paced  the  kitchen, 
his  lined  face  twitching.  "Cleanse  her,  Lord,"  he 
muttered,  "put  this  foul  thing  from  her,  Lord !"  And 
from  the  woman  sobbing  now  in  the  chamber  came  a 
wailing  "Amen!" 

The  girl  stood  in  her  robe  of  autumn  leaves. 
"Mother,  the  money  I  could  earn !  And  you  know  how 
we  all  need  money." 

John  stopped  before  her:  "Hell's  money!  Harlot's 
money!"  He  suddenly  grasped  her  wrist:  "Eh,  this 
face  of  yours — if  thy  right  hand  offend  thee,  cut  it  off. 
What's  evil  in  God's  sight,  destroy  it!" 

She  repressed  a  scream  at  the  pain  of  his  clutch,  at 
the  murder  in  his  eyes.  The  wife  ran  out  crying.  "Ah, 
John,  let  her  be !  She's  a  good  girl,  now — a  good  girl 
to  us  all !" 

But  the  fanatic  held  her  closer,  thrusting  her  up 
against  the  kitchen  door  among  the  dusty  quarry 
clothes  hung  there.  "Can  I  sit  and  pray  God  with  this 
unclean  rebellion  in  my  house?  Unclean — unclean" — 
he  thrust  her  harder  against  the  door — "you  will  re 
nounce  it — tell  me!" 

She  looked  back :  "You  don't  understand — you  don't 
know  anything — " 

He  shook  her  until  her  voice  choked :  "Answer !" 

"You  have  no  right — " 

"Answer!"  he  shouted,  and  shook  her  until  the 
house  jarred. 


1 70  THE    MIDL ANDERS 

When  he  ceased  she  threw  back  her  small  head  in  its 
frame  of  crushed  leaves.  "No !"  she  cried  swiftly,  and 
then  fought  him:  "No — nothing!" 

He  suddenly  smashed  her  against  the  door.  Its 
flimsy  fastening  gave  way,  and  she  was  hurled  out, 
falling  to  the  porch.  They  heard  her  cry,  but  none 
moved.  For  a  time  they  watched  Lindstrom,  huge, 
hairy-armed,  in  the  doorway.  Then  he  turned  to 
them :  "Go  back,"  he  said  to  the  mute  children,  the  wan 
wife,  "we'll  have  prayers  now." 

But  after  prayers  the  woman  stole  to  look  out 
dumbly  into  the  cold  moonlight  in  the  yard. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  ANGELS  APPEAR 

IT  was  ten  o'clock,  and,  though  Sunday,  Mr.  Cur- 
ran  was  running  off  the  last  of  the  handbills  for  the 
A.  O.  U.  W.  ball,  kicking  the  tread  with  his  foot,  in 
serting  the  paper  with  his  right  hand,  and  withdrawing 
it  with  his  left.  The  rhythm  of  the  press'  clank  was 
as  exact  as  this  shift  of  his  body  as  he  thought  of  the 
day — some  day  or  other — when  the  News  could  afford 
to  put  in  a  motor  for  this  drudgery.  The  curtains 
were  drawn,  for  it  would  cost  advertising  if  the  church 
people  saw  him  kicking  the  press  on  Sunday  night. 
He  hummed  an  old  melody,  for  Wiley  was  always 
happy  when  he  worked,  whatever  his  shift  of  fortune — • 
it  was  brain-clearing,  and  the  clank  of  the  old  machine 
always  soothed.  Up  over  the  dusty  front  windows  he 
saw  the  tops  of  the  trees  in  the  Square  silvered  by  the 
moon,  and  the  weather-vane  on  the  county  building. 
Sunday  nights  the  Square  lay  in  deep  peace — only  the 
Gem  Restaurant,  "Home  Cooking — Chicago  Style," 
was  lighted,  save  for  the  blur  of  the  bank  window 
where  an  incandescent  showed  the  vault  front  to  Mar 
shal  Bee  if  he  chanced  to  be  out  of  bed. 

He  was  distinctly  surprised  to  have  Aurelie  come 
in — and  yet  not  surprised ;  he  had  a  notion  that  he 
must  have  been  thinking  of  her.  He  rubbed  his  inky 

171 


172  THE   MIDLANDERS 

hands  on  a  spoiled  handbill  and  took  hers.  "Why, 
Aurelie!"  He  looked  over  her  dress  with  its  girdle 
of  sugar  leaves.  "Been  moon-gazing  up  on  Eagle's 
Point  again?" 

"I  ran  off,"  she  answered,  and  sat  down  with  a  sigh. 
He  saw  a  quiver  on  her  features — a  grimace  as  if  she 
wanted  to  cry  and  would  not.  "Seems  like  nothing 
but  trouble  comes  of  it  all,  Mr.  Curran !" 

"Ran  off?"  He  smiled.  "Not  very  far,  Aurelie; 
and  I'm  glad  you  ran  to  me!" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Curran — don't  make  a  joke  of  it!  Poor 
little  Peter  was  so  scared !  I  had  a  quarrel  and  left 
everybody — and  I'm  not  going  back.  And  I  just  came 
to  you,  for  you're  the  only  friend  I've  got." 

"I  hope  I  am  one,  anyhow."  The  editor  nodded  his 
young-old  head.  "Somehow,  I  expected  you'd  have 
trouble.  John — when  he  heard  of  it." 

"What  hurts  me  is  Uncle  Michigan.  He  can't  hardly 
get  about  any  more.  And  it  will  just  kill  him." 

"We'll  fix  it  up,  Aurelie.  You  stay  with  us  here, 
for  a  bit,  and  Uncle  Michigan  can  hobble  down.  How's 
the  leg?" 

"The  wooden  one's  all  right,  but  he's  got  rheuma 
tism  in  the  other  one.  Mr.  Curran" — she  sat  for 
ward  brightening,  and  unfolding  her  hand,  dropped  a 
bit  of  crushed  paper  on  the  table — "there's  the  prize ! 
A  check — one  hundred  dollars  !" 

One  hundred  dollars  !  And  she  had  never  possessed 
two  in  her  whole  life.  The  editor  sat  staring  at  it. 
Poor  little  prize ! 

"It's  a  shame,"  muttered  Mr.  Curran — "they  ought 
to  give  you  a  million.  But  it's  just  a  newspaper  graft 


THE    ANGELS    APPEAR  173 

to  work  up  circulation.  Just  advertising,  Aurelie. 
They  think  the  glory  is  enough  for  you." 

"I  don't  want  any  glory.  I  want  a  cork  leg — for 
Uncle  Michigan.  Like  the  one  in  the  catalogue  Hen 
McFetridge  gave  him.  Do  cork  legs  cost  a  hundred 
dollars?" 

''I  think  so.  One  of  those  legs  that  bend  and  twist 
and  seem  as  good  as  a  meat  one — yes,  sir,  I'm  afraid 
they  do,  Aurelie." 

"You  put  this  check  away,  Mr.  Curran.  And  I'm 
a-goin'  on  the  stage  and  save  up  my  money  and  buy 
Uncle  Mich  the  best  leg  there  is  anywhere." 

The  editor  folded  up  the  beauty  prize.  He  put  it  in 
his  pocketbook  with  a  sigh.  "I've  not  seen  so  much 
money  in — I  don't  know  when!  It's  just  grand  of 
you,  Aurelie,  to  think  of  Uncle  Mich.  And  so  you're 
really  going  on  the  stage  ?" 

"I  guess  so.  I'm  sick  of  everything.  The  letters 
I  get,  and  all  this  publicity — it's  just  upset  me,  Mr. 
Curran.  And  Harlan,  he  went  away" — she  looked  off 
—"and  left  me." 

Mr.  Curran  sighed.  For  his  life  he  could  not  have 
asked  her  further,  but  with  an  instinct  for  her  under 
flow  of  trouble,  he  knew.  Youth  was  not  so  far  away 
from  him — nay,  it  was  crying  in  his  heart !  He  wished 
guiltily  she  would  say  more  of  this  amazing  summer 
romance.  He  loved  Harlan  as  he  had  loved  few. 

"Sometime  I'll  tell  you,"  she  went  on;  "but  now 
I  just  want  you  to  tell  me  what  to  do." 

"About  going  on  the  stage  ?" 

"Yes." 

Wiley   rubbed   his   head.      What   he   knew   of   the 


174  THE    MIDLANDERS 

stage  was  not  much.  "I  suppose  you  must  do  some 
thing.  And  the  McFetridge  boys — well,  honestly,  I 
think  they're  straight,  down  in  their  hearts.  They're 
pretty  near  impossible  and  rough,  maybe — but  some 
way,  I  don't  think  bad  of  'em."  Mr.  Curran  never 
thought  bad  of  any  one,  even  Old  Thad.  He  was 
always  apologizing  for  Old  Thad  to  Arne  Vance's  de 
nunciations.  "And  I  can't  blame  you,  Aurelie" — he 
looked  off  above  the  silent  park — "the  town's  no  place 
for  you — perhaps  for  no  one  who's  young  and  eager 
to  live."  He  sighed — "I  know  how  it  is  .  .  .  I  had 
my  fling."  He  took  her  hands  and  drew  them  across 
the  desk :  "I'm  going  to  take  a  great  responsibility.  I'm 
going  to  tell  you — go." 

"Yes,  I'm  glad !  I  like  you,  Mr.  Curran.  You  make 
me  feel  that  you  had  trouble,  too — and  weren't  afraid, 
and  were  misunderstood.  And  so  I'm  going!" 

"That's  right.  And  be  a  good  little  girl,  Aurelie, 
and  don't  let  'em  spoil  you." 

"And  some  day  I'll  come  back  and  play  in  the  tin 
opera-house !" 

And  they  laughed.  They  went  out  through  the 
dingy  old  shop  and  up  the  path  in  the  moonlight,  he 
holding  her  hand,  both  laughing.  She  seemed  so  like 
himself — he  could  understand  all  that  she  could  not 
say. 

Aunt  Abby  listened,  and  then  set  them  out  Banbury 
tarts  and  milk.  "Dearie — dearie — I'm  glad  you've 
come  back  again — and  to  us  in  your  trouble.  And  if 
you  want  to  go  to  be  an  actress  and  marry  millionaires, 
so  there — go  do  it,  and  don't  mind  what  this  town 
says!"  Aunt  Abby  was  a  vigorous,  broad-faced  old 


THE    ANGELS    APPEAR  175 

Philistine  and  a  great  cook.  Wiley  had  found  her  on 
his  wanderings,  sitting  on  the  tongue  of  her  prairie 
schooner,  watching  a  dead  mule  that  she  had  depended 
on  to  take  her  out  of  the  Dakotas  when  the  chinch- 
bugs  ate  the  wheat,  and  she  had  abandoned  her  claim. 
She  had  kept  house  for  him  ever  since,  fat,  decently 
sixty,  and  filled  with  huge  chuckles.  And  the  laughter 
came  back  to  Aurelie's  eyes  that  night,  though  she  did 
lie  awake  wondering  about  Uncle  Michigan — a  good 
thing  about  wooden  legs  was  that  one  couldn't  get 
rheumatism  in  them. 

"Wiley,"  grumbled  Aunt  Abby,  when  Aurelie  was 
in  bed — "that  girl  is  suffering  .  .  .  she's  terribly  in 
love  with  somebody!" 

"Yes,"  he  answered  mournfully,  pulling  off  his 
shoes  in  the  doorway,  "I'm  afraid  so.  But  she'll  get 
over  it — we  all  do.  I  have,  myself — a  dozen  times." 

"Get  out — you  never  got  over  one  of  'em!  The 
accumulation  of  'em  is  what's  the  matter  with  you." 
But  when  he  was  in  bed,  the  old  lady  came  in  and 
patted  his  cheek:  "You  ought  to  get  married — even 
if  I  have  to  leave  you." 

"I  wouldn't — not  if  you  had  to  leave  me — "  he  an 
swered,  "oh,  not  a  bit,  aunty !" 

The  next  day  he  took  Aurelie  over  to  Earlville. 
Bravely  he  faced  the  stares  along  High  Street.  As 
the  bob-car  jogged  to  the  Junction,  where  it  connected 
with  the  interurban,  the  Van  Hart  surrey  drove  past 
them.  Mrs.  Van  Hart  was  in  the  rear  seat.  Aurelie 
sat  back  against  Wiley's  arm  and  then,  conscious  that 
he  noticed  it,  she  sat  forward  very  straight  and  stared 
full  at  Harlan's  mother.  The  surrey  drove  on,  the 


176  THE    MIDLANDERS 

lady  composed  and  with  kindly  elegance,  apparently 
not  seeing  them.  Aurelie  sighed  and  said  nothing, 
but  Wiley  guessed  her  tumult.  She  was  very  silent 
when  they  were  in  the  tiny  office  back  of  the  place 
where  tickets  were  sold  at  the  Majestic,  the  ornately 
impressive  vaudeville  house  in  Earlville,  across  from 
the  equally  ornate  Elk's  Club.  And  if  you  want  to  see 
what  architects  can  do  in  yellow  sandstone,  see  the 
Earlville  Elk's  Club. 

In  Morris  Feldman's  office,  young  Mr.  Hanbury,  of 
the  Dubuque  Register,  one  time  sporting  critic,  ex 
plained  his  play  modestly:  "I  don't  claim  this  piece 
of  mine  is  any  world-beater ;  it'll  never  see  the  great 
white  lights,  and  Frohman  will  never  get  the  wires  hot 
trying  to  book  us,  but  that's  all  right.  We're  after 
the  kush,  ain't  we,  Morris?" 

"The  what  ?"  gasped  Miss  Lindstrom. 

"The  coin,"  corrected  Morris  Feldman,  "the  money, 
Miss  Lindstrom." 

"I  ain't  saying  Belasco'll  go  nuts  when  he  sees  our 
production,"  went  on  the  playwright,  "but  we're  going 
to  clean  up  the  one-night  stands  while  the  public  is 
ripe  on  you.  Ain't  I  right,  Morris?" 

The  gazelle-eyed  young  Hebrew  held  a  bunch  of  blue 
tickets  in  his  teeth  while  he  slipped  a  rubber  band 
about  them  and  then  deposited  them  in  a  tin  box: 
"Believe  me,"  he  murmured. 

"And  if  we  ever  put  over  that  third-act  situation 
with  you  climbing  over  the  mill-dam,  Miss  Lindstrom, 
you're  made." 

"Believe  me,"  added  Morris,  "and  here  come  our 
angels." 


THE   ANGELS   APPEAR  177 

Now,  Hen  and  Ben  McFetridge,  coming  in  from  a 
Main  Street  billiard  hall,  each  with  a  bad  cigar  and 
a  red  necktie,  were  not  exactly  of  the  celestial  choir. 
They  crowded  into  the  box  office  and  felicitated,  and 
offered  chairs  and  rubbed  hands. 

"I  was  telling  Morris,  here — and  Miss  Lindstrom, 
the  show's  a  bird,"  went  on  the  author  genially.  "Miss 
Lindstrom,  I  want  you  to  read  the  script  right  away 
before  we  get  the  people  together  for  rehearsals." 

"But  I" — put  in  Miss  Lindstrom  flutteringly — "can't 
act!" 

"Neither  can  any  of  the  rest  of  'em.  All  these  hot 
house  stars  are  traveling  on  their  reps.  Acting  died 
with  Joe  Jefferson.  What  you  do  now  is  to  go  around 
and  hand  out  the  bunk,  and  the  rawer  it  is,  the  more 
the  public  falls  for  it.  And  here  the  biggest  paper  in 
Chicago  has  been  handing  it  out  for  you,  Miss  Lind 
strom,  the  warmest  line  of  talk  that  any  actress  ever 
stood  for.  She's  made,  ain't  she,  Morris?"  , 

The  fat-legged  young  Hebrew,  for  all  the  world  like 
a  prize  calf,  waddled  about  and  murmured  to  the  box 
teller.  Hen  and  Ben  poured  out  their  cigar  fumes; 
Wiley  lighted  his  pipe,  and  they  all  smoked  the  his- 
trion-to-be — until  her  eyes  watered. 

They  all  claimed  credit  for  "discovering"  her. 
Young  Mr.  Hanbury,  of  the  Dubuque  Register,  went 
on  praising  his  handiwork,  and  again  Aurelie  put  in : 
"Oh,  Mr.  McFetridge,  I  don't  know  how  to  act !" 

"Leave  it  to  us,"  ruminated  Hen. 

"Walk  right  out  in  front  and  slip  it  to  Jem,"  cheered 
Ben.  "The  yokels  will  be  so  dead  crazy  to  see  the 
$100,000  beauty  that  they'll  forget  you  can't  act." 


178  THE   MIDLANDERS 

"Oh!"  she  murmured,  and  gazed  at  Wiley  T.  Cur- 
ran. 

"I  rewrote  the  big  third  act  soon  as  Morris,  here, 
told  me  you  couldn't  act,"  went  on  young  Mr.  Han- 
bury  encouragingly.  "All  you  do  is  to  come  in  and 
look  dazed  and  take  the  spotlight  for  a  minute  right 
at  the  climax,  and  then  Miss  Norman  and  the  heavy, 
they  run  in  and  grab'  the  situation.  You  see  we  give 
Miss  Norman  most  of  the  fat  stuff." 

"Oh !"  said  Aurelie  faintly. 

"Yes.  There  ain't  many  girls  like  Miss  Norman 
who'd  stand  for  you  taking  all  the  paper  while  she 
does  all  the  work." 

"You  don't  hardly  have  to  open  your  face,"  added 
Ben  consolingly. 

"They'll  all  feed  up  to  you,"  added  Feldman. 

"Wait  till  we  get  to  Dubuque  and  have  a  reading  re 
hearsal,"  concluded  Mr.  Hanbury. 

"And  wait  till  you  see  the  clothes  we  give  you  in 
act  two,"  said  Hen.  "Ballroom  scene.  You  discover 
that  maybe  you're  the  bank  president's  daughter." 

"Oh !"  Her  eyes  appealed  to  them — what  it  was  all 
about  she  didn't  in  the  least  know. 

"But  the  detective  swears  you're  the  daughter  of  the 
big  dip  who  was  operating  among  the  guests  in  a  dress 
suit.  Then — zing!  You  confront  him  and  deny  it — 
he  brings  the  dip  on  whom  he  just  pinched  in  the  ante 
room,  and  you  do  the  big  flop." 

"The  what?" 

"Faint.     See?" 

"N— no." 

"Miss  Lindstrom,"  put  in  Morris  Feldman,  "believe 


THE    ANGELS    APPEAR  179 

me — don't  listen  to  these  here  playwrights.  Mr.  Gratz, 
the  stage  manager,  will  see  you're  coached.  We're 
going  to  take  you  to  Dubuque  to-morrow,  and  Miss 
Norman,  she'll  help  you,  and  don't  get  cold  feet  on 
this.  We're  out  to  grab  the  one-night  stands  while 
the  jay  towns  are  still  talking  about  you,  and  we  don't 
care  much  what  the  play  is." 

"But  remember,"  warned  young  Mr.  Hanbury,  "any 
time  you  don't  know  what  else  to  do — faint.  Then 
we'll  jump  the  mob  on,  pull  a  quick  curtain,  and  the 
hicks  out  in  front  will  think  it's  great.  And  Gratz 
will  blow  up  something  off-stage.  You  see — "  went 
on  the  playwright  confidently,  "I  wrote  the  piece  that 
way — loose !" 

"But,  oh,  Mr.  Hanbury !  When  they  find  out  I  can't 
act— " 

"Miss  Lindstrom,"  put  in  Morris  Feldman  compla 
cently,  "they'll  never  find  it  out  until  we're  beating  it 
to  the  next  town." 

"Beat  it  in  and  grab  the  money,  and  beat  it  out — " 
corrected  Angel  Hen  McFetridge  joyously. 

"Just  a  joy  ride  all  the  way,"  chirruped  Angel  Ben 
seraphically. 

The  future  star  seemed  dazed.  She  bit  the  end  of 
her  frayed  little  glove.  Wiley  Curran  looked  nerv 
ously  at  her:  "Hen,"  he  said  sadly,  "this  is  simply 
awful !" 

"I  guess  it  is.  Wrorse  than  cow  tracks.  But  the 
rubes  are  just  spoiling  to  be  stung.  And  now  we're 
all  going  to  have  lunch  at  the  Metropole  to  meet  Miss 
Norman.  We're  going  to  advance  Miss  Lindstrom 
one  hundred  dollars  so  she  can  get  some  traveling 


i8o  THE    MIDLANDERS 

clothes.  Maybe" — he  added  delicately — "she'd  like  to 
shop  this  morning." 

One  hundred  dollars  for  clothes !  She  looked  help 
lessly  at  Mr.  Curran.  But  here  was  Angel  Hen  Mc- 
Fetridge  calmly  counting  out  the  bills.  She  didn't  know 
what  to  do — she  sat  fingering  them  and  staring.  And 
then  she  murmured  some  thanks  and  was  out  in  the 
sunlight  with  Wiley,  blinded  by  the  effulgence  of  the 
money  and  its  magic. 

The  conspirators  back  in  the  lobby  looked  after  her. 
"Nice  girl,"  sighed  young  Mr.  Hanbury.  "Got  me 
dippy." 

"Young  man,"  warned  Ben,  "you  ain't  no  playwright 
when  we  get  started — you're  only  the  advance  man. 
Don't  let  her  worry  you.  You  blow  over  to  the  Mer 
cury-Journal  and  slip  'em  half  a  column.  And  slip  in 
something  about  me  and  Hen  cleaning  up  fifteen  thou 
sand  yesterday  on  Tulare  oil  up  five  points.  It  reads 
good." 

Morris  Feldman's  calf-like  face  was  put  through  the 
box-office  window :  "Now,  easy  on  this  oil  talk  with 
the  papers.  We're  troupin'  now,  and  don't  queer  the 
show." 

And  after  the  McFetridge  twins  had  gone,  Mr.  Mor 
ris  Feldman  hunched  young  Mr.  Hanbury  in  the  ribs. 
"Don't  get  so  sloppy  about  the  girl  before  these  two 
fatheads  from  California.  Keep  off  their  route.  Let 
'em  unhusk.  What  we  want  is  for  'em  to  loosen  right 
down  to  their  shoe  tacks." 

Young  Mr.  Hanbury  sighed.  He  was  far  too  young 
to  write  plays  even  if  he  was  sporting  critic  of  the  Du- 
buque  Register.  "But  they  can't  have  the  girl,"  he 


THE   ANGELS    APPEAR  181 

murmured,  "I'm  dippy  about  her.  Morris,  she's  go 
ing  to  be  it!  I'm  stuck  on  her,  Morris."  He  took 
out  the  second  act  and  looked  over  it  and  sighed  again 
— " Ain't  you  ?" 

"In  a  month,"  answered  Morris  solemnly,  "soon  as 
she  gets  to  know  how  to  wear  the  clothes  these  two 
blobs  from  California  are  going  to  buy,  that  girl  is  go 
ing  to  pull  the  whole  show  away  from  Norman — act  or 
no  act!" 

And  the  next  day  they  went  away  in  a  chair-car  up 
the  valley :  nine  of  them,  the  two  angels  in  red  neck 
ties,  the  playwright,  the  manager,  the  stage  director,  the 
second  woman,  the  leading  man,  the  juvenile,  the 
heavy  and  the  star.  The  actors  were  all  very  pleas 
ant,  which  was  right,  seeing  that  they  had  been 
stranded  in  Earlville  for  a  week  and  none  of  them 
could  get  their  baggage  out  of  the  hotels  until  the  Mc- 
Fetridges  advanced  the  money.  So  they  were  all 
very  pleasant,  the  second  woman  chewing  gum  and 
reading  a  dramatic  review,  and  calling  Aurelie, 
"Dearie".  The  rest  of  the  histrions  sprawled  about 
over  the  seats,  rather  unshaven  and  dowdy ;  while  the 
heavy  man  told  Aurelie  all  about  his  wife  and  two 
babies,  and  the  petunias  they  raised  in  a  window-box 
last  summer  when  they  were  playing  stock  in  Toledo. 
And  by  and  by,  for  he  knew  she  had  had  her  salary 
advanced,  and  no  one  else  had,  he  confidently  bor 
rowed  two  dollars.  And  that  night  the  pink-cheeked 
juvenile  told  her  about  the  hit  he  made  in  Denver  in 
summer  stock,  only  now  he  was  crazy  to  get  back  to 
Broadway  and  sign  up  with  Frohman,  and  he  bor 
rowed  two  dollars. 


1 82  THE   MIDLANDERS 

And  the  next  day,  after  the  reading-  rehearsal,  when 
the  others  were  there,  from  Chicago,  and  they  all  sat 
about  forlornly  on  boxes  and  wheezy  chairs  on  the 
cold  dark  stage,  listening  to  young  Mr.  Hanbury  read 
The  Beauty  Winner;  while  carpenters  mauled  and 
hammered  in  front  of  the  curtain,  the  leading  man 
came  to  Miss  Lindstrom.  He  was  gently  humorous, 
even  with  his  sad  eyes ;  and  he  said  apologetically : 
"Miss  Lindstrom,  you  know  my  wife  ?  Yes — that  girl 
in  gray — Miss  Frazier.  Well,  you  know  I  sent  her 
every  cent  I  had  to  come  on  and  join  us — and  she  had 
to  leave  every  rag  she's  got  in  a  North  State  Street 
boarding-house.  You  see  the  poor  kid's  been  up 
against  it  all  season  since  The  Rounders  failed.  Well, 
I — don't  know  any  of  these  people,  or  the  McFet- 
ridges,  or  I  wouldn't  ask  you  .  .  .  but  could  you  let 
us  have  ten  dollars  till  pay-day?" 

He  saw  her  eyes  flush  with  sudden  tears,  and  she 
gave  him  twenty,  and  a  smile  that  haunted  him  all  the 
gray  day's  work.  She  knew  so  well  how  it  was ! 

"Little  girl,"  he  whispered  softly,  "we're  a  bunch 
of  hard  troupers,  but  you  made  a  hit  with  us.  You 
don't  need  no  prize  face — you'll  do!" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MR.   CURRAN   ALSO   HAS  A  VISION 

THE  brown  and  stately  autumn  faded  to  the  first 
bleak  coat  of  winter.  The  hills  grew  clearer  in 
outline,  and  over  the  sycamore,  elm  and  linwood, 
patches  of  the  distant  river  showed.  One  saw  lonely 
roads  rising  from  the  black  bottoms  to  the  gashed 
bluffs  where  summer  had  robed  this  nakedness  in 
green,  and  down  these  came  the  farm  wagons  miring 
under  loads  of  yellow  grain.  At  the  cribs  the  droning 
shelters'  song  mingled  with  the  roar  of  the  quarry 
crusher,  and  this  not  unpleasing  duo  of  industry  was 
in  the  village's  ears  week  long.  Every  one  was  autumn 
busy,  what  with  the  husking,  the  hog-killing,  the 
spreading  of  fertilizer  and  the  hauling  of  wood. 

Curran  was  busied  also  with  a  rush  of  holiday  job- 
printing.  He  shortened  his  editorials  and  stole  person 
als  from  exchanges  to  have  time  for  this  bread-and- 
butter  work.  Janet  found  him  so  when  she  came  in 
with  the  program  of  the  county  teachers'  institute.  He 
declined  to  print  it  before  Thanksgiving.  "But  the 
News  does  need  the  money !"  he  concluded.  "For, 
Janet,  the  News  is  going  to  run  for  congress !" 

He  was  happy  as  a  boy  over  it.  He  had  been  seeing 
a  number  of  people,  he  assured  her.  "Surprised  'em ! 
It  seemed  quite  a  novel  idea!  But  do  you  know  it's 

183 


184  THE    MIDLANDERS 

much  as  aunty  says.  For  fifty  years  the  News  has 
given  columns — free  advertising  and  ticket  printing  to 
every  church  fair,  raffle,  oyster  supper,  and  what-not 
in  the  county — boosted  all  the  benefits  and  lodges,  wel 
comed  the  labor  unions  over  around  Earlville,  pleaded 
for  the  farmers'  cooperative  association,  and  all  that 
- — and  never  asked  a  thing  from  any  one.  And  now 
when  I  go  to  these  men — just  the  run  of  workaday 
men — and  tell  them  I'm  going  into  the  primary  against 
Jim  Hall,  they  look  surprised  and  then  say :  'Why,  of 
course,  Wiley  !'  Just  as  if  we  all  ought  to  have  thought 
of  it  before !" 

"Of  course !"  she  smiled  gravely.  "What  did  I  tell 
you  ?"  And  she  did  not  subdue  the  pride  in  her  voice. 

He  was  cleaning  his  hands  of  the  printer's  ink  to  go 
up  the  hill  to  his  supper,  talking  eagerly  all  the  time. 
Janet  must  come  up  and  see  the  new  window-boxes  he 
had  made  for  Aunt  Abby's  primroses,  working  nights 
and  between  times;  and  presently  she  found  herself, 
as  of  old,  going  with  him  laughingly  up  the  path  back 
of  the  shop. 

"I'm  not  a  dead  failure !"  he  declared.  "If  only  a 
man  comes  to  have  a  sense  of  his  place  and  work  some 
how  things  appear  brilliantly  easy.  You  see,  before,  I 
never  stopped  to  inquire  anything.  Life  appears  sim 
ple  enough  to  a  man  who  has  but  two  shirts — he  takes 
off  one  and  puts  on  the  other!  And  that's  all  I've 
been  doing  here  in  Rome,  Janet — till  now." 

"And  now  ?"  Her  serene  glance  was  on  him  as  they 
reached  the  crest  by  the  fence.  He  suddenly  caught 
her  hand  and  lifted  it  to  point  away  over  the  town, 
the  twilight  country,  the  veiled  immensity  of  nrght. 


MR.   CURRAN   ALSO   HAS   A   VISION     185 

Here,  there,  a  lamp  shone  in  a  house ;  distantly  a  light 
twinkled,  and  far  off  on  the  still  land  one  caught  yet 
another. 

'Their  homes,"  Wiley  whispered — "theirs!  The 
people  whom  you  wish  me  to  go  to — the  rough-coated 
and  silent  farmers  driving  into  town,  toiling  away,  but 
thinking,  too.  You  wanted  me  to  go  among  them, 
tell  them  that  I — Curran  of  the  News,  was  of  them, 
and  would  fight  for  them  if  they  would  let  him !  That 
what  they  believed  in  and  honored,  he  believed  in  and 
honored.  Janet,  I  stop  here  every  night  on  my  way 
up  from  the  shop  and  draw  in  the  air — this  fine  air  of 
the  country,  and  watch  the  lights  come  out  in  those 
far-off  farms  on  the  hillsides,  and  a  vision  comes  to 
me  of  them  all — their  homes  and  lives  and  destinies. 
I  see  it  all  and  understand,  and  it's  as  if  they  were  call 
ing  me — as  if  there  were  work  and  place  for  me !" 

Janet  nodded  slowly.  Her  fond  smile  came.  So 
well  she  knew  him !  It  had  to  be  that  way  with  him — 
an  appeal  to  his  imagination,  his  heart,  his  undefeat- 
able  and  simple  romance.  Well,  so  good.  She  would 
be  practical  for  him;  she  would  find  the  way.  He 
stopped  now  with  a  sudden  rueful  curiosity. 

"What's  this  I  hear  about  you  being  asked  to  go  out 
and  speak  in  the  national  campaign  for  women's  suf 
frage — the  big  fight  in  some  of  the  states  ?" 

"I  was  asked."  Janet  looked  away.  It  had  been 
an  anticipation  come  true.  She  had  had  her  eyes  on 
wider  horizons ;  she  had  felt  the  supreme  pleasure  of 
efficiency,  of  power  recognized.  She  went  on  calmly : 
"But  I  declined  it,  Wiley,  this  year." 

He  was  watching  her  face  in  the  dusk.    "I  know 


i86  THE   MIDLANDERS 

why,"  he  retorted  abruptly.  "It  was  to  stay  here  and 
help  me." 

"Yes." 

He  was  silent.  Some  consciousness  of  her  bigness, 
of  the  richness  of  her  life,  was  finding  way  into  his 
vision.  It  was  portion  of  his  new  delight  in  all  this 
buoyant  modernity,  just  as  he  had  awakened  to  kin 
ship  with  the  Midlanders,  stern  with  the  sense  of  pa 
tient  and  long-endured  wrongs,  and  needing  leadership. 
His  esthete's  indrawing,  his  dabbling  with  art  and  af 
fairs,  had  got  him  nothing ;  life  had  rebuffed  him,  but 
now  he  had  come  upon  realness.  Janet  suddenly  typi 
fied  all  this ;  he  saw  her  and  with  her  all  women  as  the 
new  enfranchised  companions  of  men,  the  efficient 
helpers  and  counselors. 

"By  George !"  he  broke  out.  "You're  coming  on  so 
grandly,  Janet!  I  always  guessed  at  it,  but  you've 
grown  so !  'Way — 'way  beyond  me !" 

"Most  men  are  in  a  state  of  arrested  development  in 
their  view  of  women,"  she  answered,  "playthings  to 
be  possessed,  or  parasites  to  be  endured.  But  a  com 
panion,  reliant,  helpful,  demanding  freedom,  extending 
it — I  thought,  Wiley,  you  would  grow  to  see  that, 
too." 

"Yes,  yes—"  he  cried,  "I  can !"  He  was  fired  with 
her  largeness,  her  faiths.  But  she  left  him  to  go  home 
with  a  trace  of  playful  cynicism. 

"If  you  will  only  keep  the  oncoming  way,  Wiley !" 
She  shook  her  head.  "But,  to-morrow,  I'll  find  you 
back  again,  the  old  indolent  chap — Curran  of  the 
News" 

He  waved  an  ardent  protest.     When  Aunt  Abby 


MR.    CURRAN   ALSO    HAS   A   VISION     187 

came  home  from  the  Congregational  Sewing  Circle, 
where  she  was  loved  for  her  helpfulness,  and  reproved 
for  her  tolerance  of  Mr.  Curran's  beer  drinking,  she 
found  him  staring  out  at  the  starlit  country. 

"Aunty,"  he  murmured,  "why  do  you  suppose  I 
never  make  any  money  ?" 

"Some  men  jest  have  it  in  'em,  Wiley;  and  some 
jest  run  country  papers."  She  took  off  her  black  and 
lavender  cap,  but  powdered  her  nose  again,  for  she 
had  only  waddled  home  to  get  his  supper  and  then  she 
would  be  off  once  more  to  assist  at  a  church  social.  As 
she  cooked,  her  nose  grew  redder,  and  when  she  was 
done  with  Wiley's  supper,  she  powdered  it  again.  It 
was  mortifying  indeed  to  a  good  rotund  lady,  who 
knew  that  when  she  came  to  The  Circle  to  join  in  the 
rejuvenating  of  small  Congregational  "pants"  for  the 
home  missionary  box,  there  would  be  a  sniff  or  two, 
for  some  way  or  other  the  fragrance  of  Mr.  Curran's 
shameless  beer  drinkings  would  cling  to  her  still.  He 
had  a  bad  way  of  hiding  the  bottles  in  her  clothes 
closet  or  among  her  bonnet  boxes,  and  then  roaring 
abominably  when  her  nose,  on  Sewing  Circle  nights, 
took  the  sympathetic  hue  of  his  own. 

"That  limb,  Wiley  T.,"  she  would  plead  to  the 
church  people.  "But,  sisters,  the  Lord  has  been  put 
ting  up  with  him  for  forty  years,  and  I  guess  until  He 
forbids,  I  shall  too !" 

"That  limb,  Wiley  T.,"  knew  vaguely  that  he 
owed  much  to  this  loyal  championship  in  circles  he  did 
not  enter,  just  as  he  did  to  Janet  Vance  and  her  faith 
in  him.  Women  were  always  doing  for  him,  one  way 
and  another.  And  he  had  carelessly  allowed  them ; 


i88  THE   MIDLANDERS 

they  were  a  part  of  the  old  Dionysian  delight  of  life, 
the  youth  he  had  given  so  fully,  and  which  even  now 
called  to  him  above  this  eternal  dawdling  over  the 
damp  paper  on  press  day,  the  clank  of  the  machine,  the 
grind  of  work.  Getting  out  the  News  was  like  having 
a  baby,  so  he  told  Aunt  Abby.  The  press  groaned  ex- 
crutiatingly ;  there  was  much  daubing  of  ink,  flapping 
of  belts,  heaving  of  rollers — then  off  it  came,  a  squall 
ing  brat,  this  Rome  News,  without  profit  to  its  parents 
or  reverence  for  the  neighbors. 

Arne  Vance  came  home  from  his  agricultural  school 
holiday  week,  and  one  bleak  day  brought  in  a  farmer 
who  had  a  grievance.  Somehow  or  other,  every  farmer 
with  a  grievance  had  been  rinding  his  way  to  the 
News  office  for  the  last  forty  years.  Bert  Hemminger, 
the  insurgent  board  member  from  the  North  Bottoms, 
was  with  them.  The  newcomer  took  a  huge  ear  of 
corn  from  the  load  of  his  wagon  and  wrathfully  shook 
it  in  the  editor's  face.  He  had  failed  of  a  prize  at  the 
seed  warehouse's  annual  distribution,  and  he  knew 
what  was  the  matter ! 

"They  give  it  to  that  Dutch  tenant  who  farms  Dan 
Boydston's  west  eighty.  And  what  did  /  get,  hey? 
Skunked — yes,  sir — skunked!  And  there  ain't  ary  ear 
of  my  load  that  ain't  better'n  Boydston's  land  can 
raise.  But  I  know.  Boydston's  a  board  member,  and 
Tanner's  man,  and  Tanner  owns  the  seed  company! 
That's  it,  by  cracky !  Politics  and  rotten!" 

The  editor  listened  sympathetically.  He  always  did. 
The  farmer  roared  and  flourished  his  disprized  seed 
ear.  He  was  "agin  the  tariff"  and  the  administration 


MR.    CURRAN   ALSO    HAS    A   VISION     189 

and  everything  else.  It  was  rotten  when  a  man  couldn't 
get  a  blue  ribbon  on  corn  like  his  corn ! 

Arne  Vance  fingered  Mr.  Sourds'  product.  He 
chewed  a  grain  and  felt  over  the  golden  spike.  "It's 
good,"  he  commented,  "but  the  kernels  break  before 
they  run  over  the  nub,  and  they're  shallow.  Ike,  some 
day  I'll  show  you  how  to  judge  corn  the  way  we  do 
up  at  the  agricultural  college." 

The  man  was  suspicious  of  this  fool  book-farming. 

"And  let  me  send  a  dozen  of  your  ears  to  the  state 
board,"  put  in  Curran.  "He's  a  great  man,  that  secre 
tary.  He'll  sit  down  and  write  you  a  letter  worth  all 
the  ribbons  Tanner's  seed  house  could  give  you." 

Ike  Sourds  did  not  know.  He  was  sure  there  was 
something  crooked  about  it. 

"I  tell  you  what  we'll  do/'  exclaimed  Hemminger. 
"This  editor,  he's  going  to  run  for  congress  in  the 
primary,  and  we  want  him  to  come  out  and  Arne  with 
him,  and  they  can  talk  politics  and  seed  corn  together. 
Hey,  Arne?" 

The  farmer-student's  black  eyes  snapped.  Go?  It 
was  a  great  idea !  Hemminger's  sad  eyes  lit.  The 
suspicious  Sourds  grew  interested.  "By  jinks,  if  there 
was  anything  like  that  going  on  in  Hemminger's  dis 
trict,  our  district  ought  to  have  it,  too!  We  wa'nt 
much  for  style,  our  folks,  in  Number  Five,  but  Arne 
Vance  can  come  talk  seed  corn  and  sour  soil,  and  then 
this  editor  can  get  up  and  whale  the  plutocrats !  It's  a 
right  lonesome  road  out  our  way,  but  we  take  the 
Nezvs  and  we  know  something !" 

And  he  and  Hemminger  went  off  with  a  promise. 
Curran  watched  the  shaggy  farm  horses  steaming  in 


190  THE   MIDLANDERS 

the  cool  sunshine,  the  bundled  figures  on  the  seat,  until 
the  wagon  drew  into  a  gap  of  the  hills.  They  wanted 
him,  did  they  ?  After  all,  his  yelling  brat  of  a  paper 
did  find  its  way  out  to  the  lonely  farms  and  was  read 
and  believed ! 

He  turned  to  discover  Arne  watching  him  curiously. 
"You're  going,  Wiley?" 

"Sure!" 

"We'll  elect  you,  Wiley!  We— and  they!  Quit 
your  grubbing  away  in  this  dinky  shop  and  come  out 
among  us!  Janet's  been  seeing  things  very  clearly. 
There  never  was  such  a  chance — the  county  needs  a 
leader.  I'm  telling  you  what  the  young  men  say 
over  the  county.  And  there's  Father  Doyle,  who's 
trying  to  build  his  church  up  among  the  foreigners  at 
the  new  mines,  and  McBride,  this  state  labor  organizer, 
who's  working  to  unionize  the  new  factory  people 
around  Earlville — none  of  them  cares  a  damn  about 
the  old  gang  in  this  town — the  best  families  and  the 
court-house  jobs  and  all  that!" 

"I  know,"  said  Curran  quietly.  "They've  both 
talked  with  me — urged  me." 

Arne's  eyes  glittered.  "Janet — "  he  muttered 
grimly.  "Her  work !" 

The  editor  was  musing.  Janet,  again.  Always 
Janet !  She  seemed  behind  every  manifestation  of  his 
new  place  in  the  hearts  of  men,  his  awakened  ambi 
tions,  his  power  to  be  himself.  The  enfranchised  and 
free  companion,  demanding  freedom,  giving  it;  that 
was  what  she  had  said  the  modern  woman  could  be! 
He  was  awakening  to  this  magnificence  in  Janet.  And 
yet  she  must  love  him — she  could  do  that  also!  And 


MR.    CURRAN   ALSO    HAS   A   VISION     191 

slowly  his  dream  grew  to  a  vision  of  a  love  past  the 
common  call  of  sex,  a  passion  ennobled  by  the  riches  of 
her  personality.  There  would  be  none  of  the  parasitic 
clinging  to  a  man,  the  need  of  sentimentalizing  shelter 
and  protection.  The  helper  to  power,  the  counselor  to 
a  widening  life — this  would  be  the  woman  to  come! 
This  would  be  Janet ! 

He  met  the  elder  Vance  next  day,  Jake,  the  polit 
ical  farmer,  the  malcontent,  an  original  Greenbacker, 
a  mugwump,  party  trouble-maker,  forever  given  to 
standing  about  the  Square  Saturday  afternoons  in  his 
moth-eaten,  old  buffalo  coat  arguing  with  the  country 
men.  He  could  not  have  been  elected  to  any  office,  but 
he  had  not  soured.  His  children  had  inherited  his  rea 
soning  unrest,  but  they  had  disciplined  it  to  achieve 
ment. 

"Somebody  to  beat  Hall — somebody  to  beat  Hall !" 
he  roared.  "Folks  say  it's  comin'  to  be  you,  Wiley !  I 
get  it  everywhere  except  in  the  News,  and  in  the  banks 
and  warehouses  and  the  court-house !  The  county  ain't 
what  it  used  to  be — there  are  mines  and  factories — and 
libraries  and  labor  unions !  The  old  gang  doesn't  real 
ize  that.  It's  you,  Wiley,  all  the  kickers  want.  And  I 
hear  you  ain't  got  the  money?  Ain't  some  of  these 
new  real  estate  men  and  boomers  over  in  Earlville 
close  to  you  for  that  ?" 

"Not  much.  Cal  Rice  and  Thad  are  in  with  "em  on 
most  of  their  deals." 

Jake  went  out  in  the  frosty  sunlight.  "Don't  for 
get,"  he  growled,  "that  there's  a  sight  of  people  who 
ain't  in  any  deals !  Arne,  let's  go  home  and  feed  stock 
with  that  contraption  of  yours  up  in  the  haymow!" 


192  THE   MIDLANDERS 

He  looked  off  across  the  Square  to  the  window  of  the 
school  superintendent's  office:  "I  guess  that  girl  of 
mine  is  ready  to  go  home,  too !" 

Wiley  watched  the  Vances  drive  off,  the  three  of 
them  in  Jake's  old  buggy.  "Jake  used  to  travel  to  po 
litical  conventions  in  the  smoker,  and,  at  twelve  o'clock, 
pull  a  basket  up  between  his  legs,  spread  a  newspaper 
on  his  knees,  eat  his  chicken  and  sweet  pickles,  and 
then  pitch  the  paper  out  the  window,  but  when  Arne 
comes  back  from  college  he  eats  in  the  diner  and  uses 
a  finger-bowl,"  he  told  Aunt  Abby.  "And  they  have 
two  hired  girls  at  the  farm !  Janet  and  Arne  make  up 
the  price  of  the  dining  car  and  the  maids  by  figuring 
out  soil  analysis,  or  new  school  methods,  and  don't 
bother  their  heads  with  picking  chickens,  or  putting  up 
lunches." 

"Well,  there'll  come  an  end,"  she  warned ;  "  'tain't  in 
nature  for  a  farm  to  stand  two  hired  girls,  or  even 
one!" 

He  laughed:  "Get  on  the  band  wagon,  Aunty!" 
Then  behind  her,  in  the  fragrant  kitchen,  he  saw  Old 
Michigan  warming  his  leg  across  the  wood-box.  Mich 
igan  grinned  expectantly : 

"Done  got  a  letter  from  our  little  girl,  Mr.  Curran ! 
And  I  done  brought  it  up  here  first  thing  for  you  to 
read." 

"Aurelie?"  Wiley  was  conscious  of  a  disappoint 
ment  that  she  had  not  written  him.  She  had  sent  a 
post  card  from  some  town,  with  a  blithe  comment,  but 
little  news,  only  that  everything  was  all  right.  Now 
he  reached  eagerly  for  the  letter  in  the  old  soldier's 
hands.  Aunt  Abby  stopped  her  cooking  as  he  tore  it 


MR.   CURRAN   ALSO   HAS   A   VISION    193 

open.  Then  they  lost  the  world  in  Aurelie's  tale  of 
wonders. 

"What  she  done  say,  Mr.  Curran?" 

"Fine!  Says  you'd  look  good  to  her,  now,  Uncle 
Mich.  She's  having  the  time  of  her  life.  Everybody's 
good  to  her,  and  helps  her,  and  the  McFetridge  boys 
are  just  grand,  and  everything's  grand."  Wiley  looked 
shining-eyed  around:  "That's  the  most  of  it — just 
grand" 

"Wiley,"  said  Aunt  Abby  severely,  "I  did  hope  she'd 
not  get  her  head  turned  !" 

"Not  a  bit.  She  says :  'Uncle  Mich,  the  first  night 
I  was  scared,  and  when  I  walked  out  there  and  tried 
to  see  over  the  lights  I  just  wilted — inside!  Mr. 
Gratz  stood  in  the  wings  with  the  book,  and  Hen  Mc 
Fetridge  kept  waving  to  me  not  to  cross  so  far,  and 
Mr.  Feldman  kept  whispering  something  from  the 
other  side,  so  I  guess  I  must  have  looked  scared.  I 
tried  to  speak  and  couldn't  say  a  word,  and  I  looked 
hopelessly  off,  and  there  was  Mr.  Hanbury  having  a 
regular  fit  because  I  was  going  to  spoil  his  play.  He 
kept  shouting  to  himself  and  dancing  around :  "Dried 
— I  knew  it !"  Then  that  made  me  mad,  and  I  glared 
at  him,  and  then  I  heard  what  Morris  Feldman  was 
trying  to  whisper,  and  I  said,  "Father,  I  am  here!' 
And  just  right,  too,  Sol  Gratz  says — just  like  the 
haughty  young  beauty  I  was  supposed  to  be,  who's 
under  suspicion  of  being  a  thief.  Because  I  was  mad 
at  Mr.  Hanbury  and  his  old  play !  And  every  time  I 
lost  my  lines  they  all  helped  me — every  one,  and  you 
ought  to  have  seen  ivhat  the  papers  said!'"  cried  Mt, 
Curran — "I  wish  I'd  seen  that  paper !" 


194  THE   MIDLANDERS 

"Go  on,"  said  Uncle  Michigan.  "When's  she  coming 
home  ?" 

"Don't  say,"  answered  Wiley.  "Says  the  hotels  are 
pretty  bad,  and  the  theaters  are  cold  and  dirty,  but  it's 
just  a  glory!  Oh,  lord — Aurelie!" 

"Likes  it  ?"  queried  Aunt  Abby,  from  her  doughnuts. 

"Says  she's  got  a  mission!  To  uplift  the  stage!  Oh, 
lord— Aurelie  r 

"But  when's  she  comin'  home?"  quavered  Uncle 
Michigan. 

And  looking  in  Michigan's  eye,  Mr.  Curran  saw  a 
tear. 

"She  doesn't  say,  Uncle  Mich.  She  just  says  she's 
sending1  a  number  of  things  for  'you-all'  out  at  the 
Pocket — with  the  first  money  she  ever  earned !  Christ 
mas  presents  for  you  and  Knute  and  Peter  and  the 
baby,  and  Albert  and  Mrs.  Lindstrom — and  for 
John." 

"And  John,  he  prayed  so  mighty  hard  he  chased  her 
off  the  place !  Reckon  she's  the  same  old  girl,  Mr. 
Curran?" 

"Sure,  I  think  so,  Uncle  Michigan." 

"Don't  reckon  this  yere  stage  business'll  ever  change 
her  a  mite,  Mr.  Curran  ?" 

"Hope  not,  Uncle  Michigan.  Darn  the  smoke — it's 
getting  in  our  eyes,  ain't  it?"  Mr.  Curran  coughed 
and  spluttered ;  he  didn't  want  to  see  the  tears  on  Mich 
igan's  whiskers.  The  old  man  thumped  the  wooden 
leg  on  the  box  and  against  the  stove  preparing  to  get 
out  of  the  house.  "Uncle  Michigan,"  said  Mr.  Curran, 
"stay  to  supper  and  we'll  talk  about  Aurelie.  Gee 
whiz,  I  hope  that  little  girl  makes  good !" 


MR.    CURRAN   ALSO   HAS   A   VISION     195 

"You  want  me  to  stay  to  supper?*'  Uncle  Michigan 
turned  to  Aunt  Abby — "You're  church  folks,  and  I 
done  been  an  ole  whisky  pedler  Johnny  Reb." 

"You  done  been  an  old  fool,  Uncle  Michigan !  You 
sit  right  here  till  supper's  ready !" 

"Right  here  till  supper's  ready !"  added  Mr.  Curran. 
"Here's  some  more  of  this  letter — " 

"But  not  any  word  about  comin'  home !" 

"She'll  get  home.  She  says  up  in  Waterloo  the 
comedian  got  drunk  and  nearly  busted  up  the  show. 
And  that  night  they  had  to  cut  out  her  big  situation." 

"What?"  gasped  Aunt  Abby,  "cut  out  her— what?' 

"I  swear—" 

"Well,  it  can't  be  serious  or  they'd  telegraphed !" 

"I  guess  so.  She  says  Mr.  Hanbury  changes  his 
play  so  much  they  just  can't  keep  up  with  it  in  re 
hearsals,  but  that  Sol  Gratz  thinks  pretty  soon  they'll 
get  it  all  over/* 

"Get  over  what — over  the  operation,  I  suppose, 
Wiley?" 

"She's  picking  up  this  stage  slang  so  fast  she  must 
be  getting  on.  I  swear,  it's  a  fine  letter." 

Aunt  Abby  was  peeking  at  it  over  his  shoulder. 
"What's  that?  She  asks  if  any  one  ever  hears  from 
Harlan  Van  Hart?" 

Wiley  sighed.  "Yes.  She — sort  of  knew  Harlan." 
He  folded  up  the  letter  and  handed  it  to  Uncle  Michi 
gan,  who  stared  at  it  as  if  it  was  a  jewel. 

"I  reckon,"  mumbled  Uncle  Michigan,  "you  done 
better  keep  this  in  your  safe  at  the  office,  Mr.  Curran." 

"That  safe  rusted  shut  in  '96,  Uncle  Mich — the  time 


196  THE    MIDLANDERS 

the  creek  flooded  the  News  office — and  it's  never  been 
opened  since." 

"Well,  you  better  keep  this  letter  in  the  clock,  Mr. 
Curran — or  somewhere.  I  wouldn't  lose  it  for  the  best 
leg  I  got."  He  handed  it  back  to  Mr.  Curran,  and  the 
editor  locked  it  in  the  clock  case.  "When  I  git  lone 
some,  I'll  come  up  here  and  we'll  read  it  all  over  again. 
Kind  o'  lonesome  at  the  ole  place.  John,  he's  sourin' 
on  the  world.  Keeps  the  boys  cuttin'  brush.  And  the 
baby's  ailin'.  And  the  woman's  frettin'.  Seems  like 
the  sun  don't  shine  so  bright  since  Aurelie  went  away." 

"Don't  you  worry,  Uncle  Mich.  She'll  come  back 
rich  and  famous,  and  everybody'll  be  happy,  and  she'll 
give  a  show  in  the  tin  opera-house." 

Uncle  Michigan's  eyes  shone  again.  "Just  as  Ole 
Captain  Tinkletoes  prophesied  down  in  Louisany ! 
She'll  done  grow  up  to  occupy  the  land !" 

Mr.  Curran's  eyes  shone,  too.  He  had  been  told 
Aurelie's  fantastic  story,  oh,  these  many  times!  He 
had  gilded  it,  enshrined  it — loved  it. 

"Our  little  girl,  Uncle  Mich !"  he  cried.  "Out  in  the 
big  world  fighting  her  way,  and  not  being  scared !  I 
never  think  of  how  she  came  to  me  but  I  want  to 
gather  her  up  and  shelter  her,  protect  her" — he  stopped 
slowly — "love  her — "  he  sighed.  Then  he  turned 
away  from  them  and  looked  down  the  hill  to  his  shop. 
"Eh,  well !  I  reckon  7  am  the  man  who  is  in  a  state  of 
arrested  development  concerning  women !" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

BACK  TO  THE  OLD  TOWN 

SPRING  comes  about  Rome  by  simple  tokens.  In 
the  black  bottoms  the  willows  gently  free  them 
selves  from  the  soiling  snow,  bend  upward  ever  so 
lightly,  and  presently  are  wands  of  furry  gray.  In  the 
clay  gaps  of  the  hills  one  hears  the  tinkle  of  water  un 
der  ice  and  over  rock,  answering  the  first  call  of  the 
robins.  The  rabbit  tracks  along  the  fences  drabble 
down  to  mere  muddy  markings  in  the  snow  and  then 
are  lost  in  the  first  faint  green.  Also,  in  town,  house 
wives  hang  their  rugs  on  the  porches  and  beat  them, 
stopping  to  look  up  at  the  blue  and  breathe,  as  if  the 
winter's  housing  had  taken  a  bit  out  of  their  souls 
which  now  was  coming  back ;  and  one  sees  the  children 
digging  their  toes  into  the  mud  on  their  way  to  school, 
testing  eagerly  its  release  from  the  frost. 

But  chiefly,  in  Rome  people  know  spring  has  come 
when  Rube  Van  Hart  disappears.  When  the  former 
leaguer  began  to  climb  the  hills  in  February  and  look 
off  south ;  and  when  his  work  in  Carmichael's  stable 
grew  slack  and  his  eyes  vacant  and  his  promises  to 
coach  the  high-school  ball  team  more  vague ;  and 
when  he  came  silently  in  the  News  office  to  read  the 
"pink  uns"  of  the  Chicago  papers,  paid  no  attention 
to  Jim  Mims,  the  tramp  printer  asking  for  a  chew,  or 

197 


198  THE   MIDLANDERS 

to  Wiley  when  he  asked  who  looked  good  for  the  sec 
ond  cushion  with  the  Cubs  since  Delahanty  was  sold — 
paid  no  attention  to  any  one  at  all,  but  wandered  down 
to  the  Junction  and  dreamily  read  the  names  of  the 
box  cars  jogging  down  the  cut,  why  then  it  was  safe 
to  set  out  garden  truck — spring  had  come. 

Then  the  News  announced  that  Rufus  Adrian  Van 
Hart,  one-time  catcher  with  the  Cubs,  had  gone  South 
to  help  with  the  spring  try-outs  at  San  Antonio  and 
would  also  get  himself  in  condition.  This  pleased 
Rube  and  all  the  town  kids  and  hurt  nobody.  Poor 
old  Rube  was  merely  stowed  in  a  box  car  getting 
away  just  because  spring  called  and  baseball  was 
here  and  he  could  not  help  it.  Among  the  Van  Harts 
there  was  no  accounting  for  Rube. 

And  when  Rube  came  back  to  town  the  women 
knew  it  was  near  time  to  take  in  house  plants  and  let 
the  children  go  for  hazelnuts,  and  resume  the  lapsed 
work  of  the  Shakespeare  Club.  With  Rube  watch  for 
a  nip  of  frost. 

But  now  spring,  and  Uncle  Michigan  spading  up 
Mr.  Curran's  garden,  disputing  with  his  housekeeper 
while  they  knelt  in  the  black  damp  earth  over  a  pack 
age  of  seeds  magnanimously  distributed  by  the  Honor 
able  James  S.  Hall,  M.  C.  Their  voices  came  to  the 
editor  at  his  desk.  Jim  Mims  had  gone  to  the  blind 
tiger  in  the  haymow  of  Carmichaers  livery-stable ; 
and  Aleck,  the  press  boy  had  stolen  off  to  Sin  Creek  to 
see  if  it  was  yet  good  bullhead  fishing. 

"If  I'm  ever  going  to  congress,"  murmured  the  ed 
itor,  "I  must  fire  this  spring  fever  and  scold  everybody 
into  working."  He  was  watching  Janet  Vance  tie  her 


BACK    TO    THE    OLD    TOWN  199 

team  of  colts  to  the  county-yard  hitching-rail,  her  trim, 
blue  figure  against  the  young  elm  green.  She  looked 
at  her  watch  decisively.  It  was  early  for  a  county  offi 
cer  to  be  down-town.  She  came  across  the  street  with 
her  direct  and  springy  step  and  to  the  News  door. 
The  editor  took  his  feet  off  the  desk  and  waved  his 
hand  lazily. 

"Janet,  let's  go  fishing.  Let's  get  Old  Mowry's 
wagon  and  take  Aunt  Abby  and  Jim  Minis — if  he's  so 
ber — and  Mich  and  Aleck  and  all  go  fishing." 

"Wiley,  that's  what  you've  always  done  the  first 
spring  weather.  But  this  year — now — " 

"Don't  finish  it.    Now — congress — " 

"I  drove  in  behind  your  back  lot,"  she  went  on  calm 
ly,  "and  I  see  that  the  W.  C.  T.  U.  ladies  are  right. 
The  size  of  that  pile  of  beer  bottles  in  your  alley !  Just 
suppose  you'd  bought  books  all  your  life  instead  of 
beer?" 

"Janet,"  Cur  ran  smiled  at  her,  "I  never  had  a  place 
to  put  the  books  all  my  life.  But  there's  always  been  a 
place  for  the  beer." 

She  looked  at  him  in  her  old  despair.  "Now — 
now — "  he  went  on  and  waved  a  hand  at  her,  "don't 
scold.  I'm  up — I'm  doing!  In  for  a  career — congress 
— anything !  But  the  weather,  Janet !  Can't  a  fellow 
sit  once  in  a  while  over  his  pipe — and  watch  you 
through  the  smoke,  perhaps — and  dream  ?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  know,"  he  went  on  lugubri 
ously.  "The  problem  with  the  new  woman  is,  will  she 
ever  let  a  man  go  fishing  ?" 

She  smiled  but  continued  her  directness:  "Tom 
Purcell,  of  Earlville,  is  going  to  take  the  active  manage- 


200  THE   MIDLANDERS 

merit  of  your  campaign  this  summer.  The  committee 
of  the  Progressive  League  decided  on  him." 

He  shrugged.  Up  the  cliff  back  of  his  shop  the 
bluebirds  were  calling.  The  committee  of  the  nascent 
Progressive  League — and  Janet — had  kept  Mr.  Cur- 
ran  plugging  rather  steadily  all  winter.  He  had  ad 
dressed  farmers'  institutes  and  gone  to  state  confer 
ences  of  the  Progressives,  had  met  Governor  Delroy 
and  the  men  of  the  state  organization — "glad-handed 
around  the  circle/'  as  he  put  it — and  had  also  gone 
among  the  men  of  his  own  county, — lodge  meetings, 
church  fairs,  district-school  entertainments.  And  on 
Arne's  visits  from  school  they  had  taken  long  drives 
to  lonely  precincts  where  they  had  discussed  farm 
problems  from  Arne's  new  angles,  and  Wiley  had  told 
the  men  simply  and  frankly  that  he  wanted  them  to 
vote  for  him  in  the  primary. 

"I  don't  know  any  other  politics,"  he  assured  Janet. 

"You  don't  need  to.  The  county  crowd  knows  now 
your  candidacy  is  not  a  joke.  I  hear  Judge  Van  Hart 
has  written  Congressman  Hall  that  he'd  better  come 
home  and  look  over  his  constituency.  They  feel  you, 
Wiley!" 

Wiley  opened  a  benign  eye.  "Apparently,  Tanner 
and  Rice  and  Boydston  are  organizing  this  Retail  Mer 
chants'  Association,  the  secret  motive  of  which  is  to 
get  the  town's  advertising  withheld  from  the  News. 
That's  one  angle  of  the  fight.  Janet,  I  shan't  have  an 
advertiser  left  except  the  undertaker  and  he  wants  me 
to  take  it  out  in  trade." 

"Be  serious,  Wiley!"  she  retorted — and  then  Uncle 
Michigan  stuck  his  old  squirrel-skin  cap  in  the  window. 


BACK   TO    THE   OLD   TOWN  201 

"April,  Mr.  Wiley,  and  dewberries  air  ripe  down  in 
Louisiany !" 

"And  the  mocking-birds  are  singing  in  the  cane- 
brakes,  Uncle  Mich!" 

"And  if  my  ole  house-boat  wasn't  done  stuck  hard 
and  fast  up  yere — and  if  my  little  girl  hadn't  done  gone 
off  in  the  show  business,  I'd — " 

"Uncle  Mich !"  roared  the  candidate,  pounding  the 
desk — "shut  up,  or  I'll  never  get  to  congress !  Blue 
birds  up  Eagle  Point !  Bullhead  fishing !  Aunt  Abby 
sowing  lettuce!  Get  out  of  here  with  it  all!  Take 
April  with  you !" 

"Uncle  Michigan,"  smiled  Miss  Vance,  "we're  trying 
to  talk  business.  Now  you  know  that  business  and  Mr. 
Wiley—" 

"Fine !"  cried  the  candidate— "Uncle  Mich—" 

Old  Mich  took  off  his  cap.  "Miss  Vance,  I  know 
what  gets  Mr.  Wiley.  Done  been  my  little  girl!" 

Miss  Vance  was  impassive,  Mr.  Curran  amiably 
evasive.  "Your  little  girl?  Mich,  you  old  scoundrel, 
you  haven't  a  sign  of  title  to  her.  Why  don't  you  tell 
us  all — who  was  Aurelie,  to  begin  with,  and  who  was 
Captain  Tinkletoes?  It  isn't  right  to  wink  and  grin 
when  people  ask  you  about  her — people  never  know 
what  to  believe !" 

"Reckon  decent  people  believe  only  what's  good — • 
and  the  others  don't  count.  But  my  little  girl  come  of 
better  stock  than  those  big  bugs  on  High  Street." 

"Well,  who?" 

Then  Uncle  Michigan  did  his  abominable  old  trick. 
He  leaned  close  and  shut  one  eye  tight  and  opened  the 
other  very  wide,  drew  up  his  face  so  that  the  white 


202  THE   MIDLANDERS 

whiskers,  sticking  out  in  all  directions,  made  his  face 
like  a  sunflower.  Then  he  exploded  his  famous  joke: 
"She  done  come  from  the  Holy  Family!" 

Then  he  doubled  over  with  laughter.  That  settled 
them !  He  roared  it  to  Father  Doyle  when  the  good 
priest  tried  to  settle  Aurelie's  patrimony;  he  chuckled 
it  to  Aunt  Abhy  and  the  Epworth  League  ladies;  he 
discomfited  Mr.  Curran  and  all  the  town  with  it — his 
little  girl  was  descended  from  the  Holy  Family ! 

"Uncle  Michigan,"  put  in  Miss  Vance  distantly, 
"what  is  Aurelie  doing  these  days  ?" 

"I  dun-no  exactly.  Mr.  Wiley  will  read  you  her  let 
ters." 

"Mr.  Wiley!"  She  looked  at  him.  Mr.  Wiley 
sighed.  "Got  a  telegram  from  Hen  McFetridge  yester 
day.  They  played  to  S.  R.  O.  at  Marshaltown.  And 
another  one  from  Cedar  Rapids  says :  'Biggest  house 
here  since  ninety-six/  Janet" — he  looked  at  her  with 
the  first  burst  of  enthusiasm  she  had  seen  this  morn 
ing — "Aurelie's  a  winner !" 

The  woman  of  thirty  was  looking  off  to  the  hills. 
"Wiley,  I  wouldn't  publish  all  the  things  you  do  about 
her  in  the  News.  It's  not  good  taste — all  those  press 
notices  and  things.  And  it  doesn't  do  you  any  good  in 
your  new — career."  She  had  hesitated  and  looked  full 
at  him.  Uncle  Michigan  had  gone  back  to  scratching 
his  garden  bed.  "The  town  says — "  again  she  paused 
at  his  resentful  wonder. 

"The  town  says  what  ?" 

"That  you  must  be  rather  in  love  with  Aurelie." 

He  was  on  his  feet  before  her.  "Janet !  They  say 
that?" 


BACK   TO    THE   OLD   TOWN  203 

"Well,  you've  run  on  in  such  enthusiasm  about  her. 
Of  course  it's  just  your  way." 

"My  way?  I  can't  help  what  the  town  says.  The 
town  made  an  outcast  of  me  much  as  it  did  of  Aurelie 
in  the  old  days.  But  by  George,  Janet — this!" 

"She  is  the  sort  you  would  love,  Wiley.  With  all 
her  courage,  the  brave  fight,  as  you  say  she  is  making — 
she  is  one  of  the  superlatively  feminine  sort — or  at 
least  what  you  men  stupidly  imagine  is  the  really  femi 
nine.  Appealing  to  your  absurd  chivalry,  as  you  call 
it;  but  actually  your  vanity — clinging  to  you  and  so 
giving  you  an  enlarged  sense  of  your  strength,  your 
wisdom,  your  indispensableness  to  womankind!  Come 
now" — she  smiled  good  humoredly — "isn't  that  the 
type  of  woman  you  like  best?" 

He  faced  her  with  a  hurt  laugh ;  she  had  begun  with 
a  touch  of  bitterness  which  her  common  sense  subdued. 

"The  parasite  ?  Not  the  woman  who  can  help — and 
who  dares  demand!  You  men  are  all  primitive  in 
your  ideas  of  women,  Wiley." 

"Janet,"  he  answered  slowly,  "you  don't  under 
stand.  A  child,  misplaced,  hurt,  proud,  struggling  for 
the  bit  of  good  she  sees — that  is  what  I  saw  in  Aurelie. 
I  don't  deny  her  appeal.  I've  felt  like  taking  her  in 
my  arms  and  saying:  'Why,  you  dear  kid,  you  ought 
not  to  be  in  this  business! — knocking  about  cheap 
hotels  and  in  such  shows.  You  ought  to  have  a  home 
— a  shelter — some  one — '  " 

"That  is  just  it."  She  smiled  impersonally,  and 
briefly.  "Well,  no  matter,  Wiley.  Only  I  wondered 
why  the  bluebirds  were  calling  to  you  this  morning, 
and  not  congress !  It  is  spring,  Wiley !" 


204  THE   MIDLANDERS 

But  Mr.  Curran  was  put  out  and  angry.  He  did  not 
want  her  to  divert  the  matter  with  her  serenely  meas 
uring  smile.  "Janet!"  he  cried  again.  "I  don't  love 
her — no,  no!" 

"No — no !  Merely  attracted.  As  you  are  to  book- 
poster  girls  and  the  magazine-cover  girls!"  She 
laughed  now.  "Oh,  well,  the  eternal  masculine !"  Then 
she  turned  to  him  stubbornly:  "But  you  are  coming 
through  this  fight — this  campaign — this  man's  work 
for  us  all." 

"Yes,"  he  answered  quietly.  "I  will.  And  you've 
hurt  me,  Janet.  But  perhaps  you  were  intending  to." 

She  left  him  with  another  banter.  He  had  a  feeling 
that  she  was  guessing  shrewdly  at  the  struggle  dimly 
growing  in  his  mind ;  he  was  trying  to  grasp  her  larger 
standards,  her  victorious  self  as  a  woman  of  the  time, 
and  his  yielding  to  the  common  thrall  of  men  in  this 
chit  of  a  girl.  And  he  gave  it  up  as  a  bad  job,  and 
turned  to  his  work.  But  he  observed  that  he  did  work 
the  rest  of  the  day,  savagely  and  with  effect.  He 
would  not  listen  to  the  bluebirds. 

Bluebirds  and  spring  ushered  in  full  June.  With 
his  shop  and  his  outer  activities  he  was  busied,  but  not 
too  busied  to  read  the  scrawly  letters  from  Aurelie 
which  Uncld  Mich  brought.  Things  had  happened. 
The  McFetridge  combination  had  barnstormed  the 
Northwest  and  then  booked  into  a  Chicago  stock  house. 
Then  it  lost  the  money  garnered  on  one-night  stands. 
The  city  did  not  seem  to  recognize  last  year's  winner 
of  the  beauty  contest.  The  Chronicle,  having  worked 
its  subscription  lists  as  far  as  might  be  on  the  exploita 
tion,  was  rather  indifferent  to  Miss  Lindstrom.  Other 


BACK   TO    THE   OLD   TOWN  205 

reviews  were  perfunctory.  Morris  Feldman  said  it 
was  Mr.  Hanbury's  "rotten"  play.  But  every  one 
cheerfully  admitted  that,  even  young  Mr.  Hanbury  of 
the  Dubuque  Register. 

All  this  between  lines  of  Aurelie's  exuberant  letters. 
She  was  undaunted.  She  was  expanding  vivaciously, 
throwing  herself  into  work,  living  every  minute.  Her 
first  glimpse  of  a  city  fascinated  her.  She  bewildered 
Uncle  Michigan  with  her  adventures. 

"That  limb  of  a  girl,"  commented  Aunt  Abby,  "she 
ought  to  be  home.  It  isn't  doing  her  a  mite  of  good, 
Wiley." 

"Home?"  murmured  Mr.  Curran.  "Where  is  Au 
relie's  home?" 

"She  ought  to  be  gathered  up  and  taken  care  of !" 

"Yes."     Mr.  Curran  sighed.     "I  think  so  too,  now." 

The  next  they  heard  was  of  a  wrangle  between  the 
McFetridges  and  Morris  Feldman.  Then  Mr.  Feld 
man  was  "out",  and  the  "house  was  dark"  and  she  was 
boarding  with  Miss  Norman  who  was  a  "perfect  dear". 
Then  the  company  reorganized  with  a  lot  of  expensive 
scenery  and  a  new  play  which  the  "angels"  had  pro 
cured.  Then  they  had  a  summer  booking  and  Aurelie 
was  to  be  "leading  lady!"  Out  in  the  West  again 
somewhere !  So  Aurelie  put  it. 

Mr.  Curran  was  struck  dumb.  Aurelie  a  "leading 
lady"  !  He  could  not  kick  his  job-press  that  day.  "That 
girl,"  he  mused,  "must  just  be  running  that  show  and 
the  twins  and  everything !" 

"Done  goin'  to  occupy  the  land !"  chuckled  Uncle 
Michigan. 

One  afternoon  when  the  sugar  trees  over  the  town 


206  THE    MIDLANDERS 

were  summer-heavy,  and  from  the  uplands  came  the 
faint  click-click  of  the  first  mowers,  and  the  young  corn 
was  high  across  the  black  bottoms,  Mr.  Curran,  look 
ing  up  from  his  press,  saw  the  Van  Hart  surrey  at  his 
door.  It  held  two  suit  cases  and  a  bulldog  the  like  of 
which  in  jowl  and  legs  Rome,  Iowa,  had  never  before 
seen.  And  a  broad-shouldered  young  man  was  de 
scending.  Mr.  Curran  threw  proofs  to  the  wind  and 
seized  his  hands. 

"Harlan !     Back  to  the  old  town !" 

"Fine!  Going  to  stay,  Wiley.  Not  exactly  at  the 
head  of  my  class  but  I  got  through  comfortably."  Har 
lan  drew  himself  up  and  looked  across  at  the  dingy 
windows  of  his  father's  old  law  offices  above  the  bank. 
"I'm  going  to  buck  into  the  work,  the  worst  you  ever 
saw,  Wiley." 

"It's  great.  So  many  of  our  young  men  drift  West 
or  to  the  cities.  But  you — right  here  with  the  home 
folks." 

"Right  here."  He  looked  at  his  friend  with  the  old 
affectionate  intimacy.  "I  hear,  Wiley,  you're  going  to 
run  for  congress!" 

"Yes.  They  got  me  into  it.  We'll  make  Hall  busy, 
too." 

Harlan  smiled  gravely.     "Father  wrote  me  of  it." 

Wiley  glanced  up  at  him.  "Your  father  isn't  for  me, 
Harlan.  And  he's  a  pretty  big  man.  But — eastern. 
We're  rattling  on  pretty  strong  for  'em  out  here! 
Direct  elections  for  senators,  the  initiative,  the  recall  of 
judges — the  control  of  wealth  by  the  state — the  new 
democracy,  boy.  But  you  know  all  of  it.  The  old 
dreams  we  used  to  argue  in  the  News  shop !  Why  we 


BACK   TO    THE    OLD   TOWN  207 

— the  old  Neivs  and  I — we  sort  of  raised  you,  Harlan. 
We  made  you  as  much  as  Harvard !" 

Harlan  smiled.  Wiley's  eyes  were  shining.  They 
had  a  great  brother  love,  a  faith,  a  pride. 

"What's  got  into  you,  Wiley?  You're  changed — 
you're  awakened !  Your  campaign — the  big  fight 
ahead?  Is  that  it?" 

"I  shouldn't  wonder !  Everything  seems  changed. 
Even  the  old  town — God  bless  it,  it's  come  to  seem 
green  and  fair  and  livable !  Yes,  I  awakened,  Harlan. 
So's  the  old  town !  WVre  even  going  to  have  a  new 
building — the  McFetridge  twins  are  going  to  remodel 
the  tin  opera-house." 

"Yes?" 

"And  they've  got  a  new  show  out.  And  the  leading 
woman  is  little  Aurelie  Lindstrom !" 

His  friend's  face  had  hardened.  "Yes,"  Harlan  mut 
tered. 

"You  knew?" 

"Yes.  I  read  of  it — I  sort  of  followed  her — in  the 
reviews."  Harlan  was  gathering  up  the  lines.  "Wiley, 
— I — wish  I  had  saved  her !" 

Wiley's  hand  closed  over  Harlan's  on  the  dashboard. 
"Boy,"  he  murmured,  "I  didn't  mean  to  bring  this  old 
matter  up."  Then  his  face  lit  with  a  sudden  exaltation 
as  if  he  had  put  a  great  hope  to  the  test.  "Tell  me— 
you  do  love  that  girl,  Harlan !" 

"I  did  love  her  once,"  retorted  Harlan  squarely. 
"You  might  have  guessed  why  I  wanted  her  out  of  this. 
And  you  got  her  into  it !" 

"And  now?"  Wiley  muttered.  But  Harlan  drove 
on  suddenly  and  without  looking  back.  The  older 


208  THE   MIDLANDERS 

man  watched  him  with  a  feeling  that  the  fine  zest  of 
spring  had  dulled  in  him.  He  seemed  trampling  on 
some  rugged  loyalty  to  the  best  thing  in  life — the  faith 
of  friends.  He  sighed  as  he  went  back  to  his  shop, 
"Got  her  into  it?  Bless  her,  I  did!  But  I  couldn't 
explain  to  any  one  what  it's  meant  to  me!" 

But  the  bluebirds  in  the  maples  did  not  call  so  jubi 
lantly  as  they  had  the  summer  long. 


T 


CHAPTER  XV 

FIGHTING   BLOOD 

HE  last  week  of  June  Mr.  Curran  received  this 
telegram : 


"Busted  at  Broken  Bow.  HEN." 

He  showed  it  to  Aunt  Abby,  and  Uncle  Mich,  who 
came  around  every  week  with  a  letter  from  Aurelie  for 
Mr.  Curran  to  read. 

Mr.  Curran  sighed.  "Broken  Bow  is  a  jerkwater 
station  out  in  the  short-grass  country.  Western  Ne 
braska.  Pretty  tough.  I  been  there — I  was  busted, 
also." 

"I  hope,"  said  Aunt  Abby,  "that  the  child  hasn't 
been  compelled  to  have  anything  else  cut  out,  even  if  it 
is  busted." 

Mr.  Curran  explained  that  this  was  merely  the  theat 
rical  company.  Then  they  put  the  telegram  away  be 
hind  the  clock  where  all  of  Aurelie's  letters  and  press 
notices  were  kept.  The  next  week  came  Aurelie's 
explanation.  The  Beauty  Winner  company  was 
stranded.  All  that  expensive  scenery  and  the  reorgan 
ized  troupe  had  gone  for  nothing.  Business  was  very 
poor,  Hen  McFetridge  explained,  and  the  actors  were 
clamoring  for  their  salaries.  All  except  Aurelie  who 

209 


210  THE   MIDLANDERS 

received  hers  every  week  and  sent  most  of  it  home. 
Aurelie  intimated  that  the  twins  were  getting  hard  up. 
She  heard  frequent  discussions  of  oil  and  Verde  cop 
per  stock  and  other  matters  extraneous  to  art.  And 
the  following  week  Mr.  Curran,  in  Earlville  to  see 
some  of  his  political  confreres,  was  surprised  to  see 
Morris  Feldman  in  front  of  his  ten-and-twenty  cent 
Main  Street  vaudeville  and  moving-picture  house. 

Morris  rolled  his  calf  eyes  complacently.  "Those 
two  big  blobs  from  Tulare,  California,  Mr.  Curran, 
what  they  don't  know  about  the  show  business  is  much, 
believe  me.  They  done  some  fierce  things.  Why,  up 
in  Bozeman,  Montana,  Mr.  Curran,  those  two  big  ginks 
from  Tulare,  California,  they  leased  the  hotel  and 
turned  everybody  out  just  because  Miss  Lindstrom  she 
didn't  like  the  room  she  had !  Can  you  beat  it  ?  No 
body  in  that  hotel  except  our  bunch  of  old  hams.  Say, 
and  Hen  and  Ben  hired  a  chef  in  Denver  what  stuck 
'em  for  three  hundred  a  month  to  go  along  and  cook 
for  the  troupe  because  Miss  Lindstrom  didn't  like  a 
breakfast  she  got  one  morning.  And  that  old  bunch 
of  hams  we  had  playin' — some  of  them  troupers  hadn't 
had  a  square  meal  since  eighty-one.  Why,  Hen  and 
Ben  blew  in  more  money  on  cabs  some  days  than  we 
could  play  to  in  a  week.  And  they  plunged  on  oil  and 
played  poker,  and  nobody  got  any  salaries ;  and  then 
they  let  me  out.  They  let  Hanbury  manage  the  back 
of  the  house  after  that ;  and  believe  me,  anything  Han- 
bury  manages  is  frazzled  before  it  starts." 

"Well,  what'll  the  company  do  now  ?"  said  Mr.  Cur 
ran. 

"Walk,"  commented  Mr.  Feldman. 


FIGHTING   BLOOD  211 

"And  the  twins?" 

"Back  to  Tulare.     Oil." 

"And  Miss  Linclstrom?" 

Mr.  Feldman  turned  a  limpid  eye  on  Mr.  Curran. 
"Miss  Lindstrom,  she'll  make  good  if  she  ever  shakes 
that  crazy  bunch.  I  said:  'Little  girl,  you  get  the 
clothes  and  go  to  New  York.  You  got  the  stuff  in  you 
and  you  look  the  part/  '' 

"Actually?"    Mr.  Curran  stared. 

"Believe  me.  What  broke  up  the  show  was  the  twins 
got  stuck  on  her." 

"What?" 

"Dippy.  Hen  and  Ben  laid  awake  nights  thinking 
how  to  put  it  over  each  other.  Flowers,  cabs,  candies 
— every  girl  in  the  bunch  was  in  on  it,  too.  Aurelie 
Lindstrom  ran  that  whole  show  and  the  twins  paid  the 
bills.  Then  we  blew  up  out  in  Nebraska.  When  I 
left,  them  ham  actors  was  trying  to  walk  out  of  the 
hotel  wearing  two  suits  of  clothes  apiece  and  leaving 
their  trunks  behind ;  and  Hen  and  Ben  were  buying 
drinks  for  some  rube  and  trying  to  sell  him  oil  stock." 

Mr.  Curran  was  worried.  He  asked  Aunt  Abby  if 
he  should  not  send  Aurelie  some  money  to  come  home 
on.  But  he  didn't  have  any.  Then  another  letter 
came.  Aurelie  was  playing  "summer  stock"  in  Den 
ver.  "Miss  Norman  and  me,  but  I'm  not  leading  lady 
any  more.  I'm  doing  ingenue  bits.  Leading  lady  with 
Hen  and  Ben  around  was  pretty  bad.  They  were  so 
foolish!  And  it  was  such  a  noisy  play,  for  the  farther 
West  we  got,  the^more  shooting  Mr.  Hanbury  insisted 
on  putting  in.  The  big  situation  always  gave  me  a 
headache." 


212  THE   MIDLANDERS 

"Land !"  murmured  Aunt  Abby,  "I  thought  she  had 
that  cutout?" 

"But,  Mr.  Curran,"  ran  on  Aurelie's  letter,  "don't 
you  and  Uncle  Mich  worry  about  me.  I'm  working 
hard  and  everybody  seems  to  like  me.  The  juvenile  I 
play  against  is  good-looking — quite  distinguished.  But 
everybody  borrows  my  money.  I'm  awful  sorry  for 
Hen  and  Ben — they  were  broke  completely.  Hen  came 
to  me  and  said :  'Little  girl,  we  aren't  sorry  for  a  cent 
we  ever  blew  in  on  you.  If  you  don't  want  to  marry  us, 
you  don't  have  to.'  So  they  went  back  to  Tulare  to 
hunt  more  cow  tracks,  and  if  they  find  oil  again  they're 
going  to  make  me  a  bigger  actress  than  Mrs.  Fiske. 
Yes,  sir — you  see!  Why,  I  just  cried  when  the  twins 
went  West — busted.  They  were  grand  good  fellows 
after  all ! 

"P.  S.  I'm  going  to  send  Uncle  Mich  some  more 
money  next  pay-day  to  pay  on  the  cork  leg.  And, 
Uncle  Mich,  I  saw  a  mountain.  Just  like  you  said 
when  we  came  up  river  to  occupy  the  land.  Only  such 
a  teeny  mountain  way  off — like  a  baby's  toe  sticking 
out  of  a  blue  coverlet !  Lots  of  love.  AURELIE." 

"Done  never  forget  Uncle  Mich!"  cried  that  old 
rebel  thumping  his  peg-leg  joyously  on  the  wood-box. 
"And  I  done  promised  I'd  never  peddle  a  pint  o'  whis 
ky  long  as  she  sends  me  money !" 

"Mich,  I  understand  John  won't  let  the  family  have 
a  cent  of  Aurelie's  money." 

Uncle  Mich  winked  wisely.  "Knute  and  I  sneak  'em 
in — underclothes  for  the  baby  and  socks  and  truck. 
John's  too  busy  with  his  soul  and  plannin'  to  drive 


FIGHTING   BLOOD  213 

Tanner's  men  off  the  creek  survey  to  think  about  Au- 
relie's  show  money  now.  Devil's  money,  John  says. 
But  it  buys  things  for  the  baby,  Mr.  Curran.  Just 
like  my  old  bootleg  money,  somehow.  But  these  here 
Holiness  people  that  got  hold  of  John,  they  don't  think 
o'  that." 

"John's  a  fool,  Uncle  Mich.  If  the  county  decides 
to  divert  the  creek  down  the  Pocket  all  you  squatters 
will  have  to  get  out  or  be  flooded." 

"Not  John.  He  says  the  God  o'  Battles  done  told 
him  to  fight.  Mr.  Curran,  there'll  done  be  trouble 
sometime  over  that." 

"I'm  afraid  so,"  Wiley  sighed.  The  deal  for  the 
turning  of  Sinsinawa  Creek  back  from  the  uplands 
above  the  town  to  its  ancient  channel  which  led  to  the 
bottoms  above  Tanner's  quarry,  had  gone  quietly 
through.  Everybody  favored  it,  except  the  outlying 
farmers  who  grumbled  that  it  was  another  piece  of 
favoritism,  or  maybe  worse.  "Tanner's  boards,"  how 
ever,  were  an  always  present  grievance.  The  only  item 
of  interest  the  News  found  in  the  proceedings  was  that 
Harlan  Van  Hart,  Esq.,  son  of  Judge  Van  Hart,  the 
latest  addition  to  the  Winnetka  county  bar,  made  his 
first  public  appearance  as  an  attorney  for  the  Tanner 
company  to  argue  for  the  ordinance.  Wiley  "spread" 
himself  in  the  most  approved  rural  journalistic  fashion 
on  Harlan's  effort,  but  he  sighed — and  sent  the  clip 
ping  to  Arne  Vance. 

And  not  even  young  attorney  Van  Hart,  toiling 
away  that  summer  in  the  little  side  room  of  the  firm  of 
Donley  &  Van  Hart — names  reversed,  you  notice — get 
ting  up  his  briefs  and  citations,  knew  that  in  his  little 


2i4  THE   MIDLANDERS 

side  room  in  the  bank  Old  Thad  Tanner  chuckled  and 
roared.  The  News  actually  commending  something 
that  he  had  done!  But  that  fool  editor  didn't  really 
think  Van  Hart's  boy  had  anything  to  do  with  it  ?  He 
took  the  paper  to  his  son-in-law,  Cal  Rice,  the  pallid 
cashier.  "We  gotta  get  this  boy,  Cal.  We  gotta  get 
him  on  the  ticket  next  fall,  if  he  can  hold  the  News 
and  these  sorehead  cusses  who've  started  that  Progres 
sive  League  over  in  Earlville.  Yes,  sir,  Cal — a  mighty 
clever  boy,  and  a  good  boy — like  his  father — steady 
and  safe.  The  party  needs  more  young  men  like  that 
— and  maybe  it  would  be  just  as  well  to  put  old  jelly- 
belly  Jewett  off  the  ticket  this  year  and  run  Harlan  for 
district  attorney." 

Old  Thad  joked  about  this  to  Judge  Van  Hart  the 
next  day ;  and  the  judge  frowned.  He  deprecated  pol 
itics.  But  when  he  went  in  the  bank  Cal  Rice  said 
something  about  it.  Then  the  judge  mildly  and  wor 
riedly  told  his  wife.  Her  eye  brightened.  Harlan 
should  have  a  career  in  the  state — certainly.  But  it 
was  absurd  to  talk  of  it  his  first  year  out  of  school.  But 
the  next  day  Old  Thad  stopped  her  surrey  to  speak  of 
it  when  she  was  shopping  about  the  Square.  He  had 
a  joking  and  yet  deferential  patronizing  for  the  Van 
Harts  that  always  made  the  good  lady  detest  him — 
as  much  as  one  may  the  richest  man  in  the  county — > 
and  the  most  influential. 

Meanwhile  Harlan  plugged  away.  He  seemed  more 
reserved,  but  still  his  genial  self.  He  picnicked  with 
the  girls  of  his  set  along  the  river;  the  High  Street 
young  people  wandered  in  and  out  of  his  mother's 
home  at  informal  summer  dances,  and  played  tennis  on 


FIGHTING   BLOOD  215 

the  lawns,  and  ate  ice-cream  of  evenings,  and  flirted  on 
the  veranda  much  as  they  had  done  since  he  was  six 
teen.  Nothing  was  changed,  only  he  was  now  a  man 
at  a  man's  work.  Much  like  his  father,  people  said. 
From  his  office  window  Harlan  could  see  the  judge 
drive  in  town  behind  Old  Dutch,  tie  him  to  the  rail  and 
walk  slowly  under  the  maples  to  the  court-house  steps, 
speaking  gently  to  every  one,  bowing  with  old-time 
courtesy  to  the  women,  patting  the  dogs — a  fine,  up 
right,  beloved  figure  of  a  man.  That  was  what  he 
should  come  to  be,  doubtless,  a  sturdy,  unfearing,  clear- 
minded  American  of  the  best  people.  . 

And  once  as  he  watched  the  court  room  windows 
with  the  June  sweetness  straying  in,  he  thought  of  that 
evening  when  John  Lindstrom's  hoarse  and  despairing 
voice  cursed  his  father  and  the  law.  He  felt  that  even 
now  the  hurt  of  it  was  on  his  father's  mind.  A  hurt 
growing  with  what  the  town  was  slowly  coming  to 
think  of  Lindstrom.  He  had  defied  society,  cut  himself 
off,  a  religious  fanatic,  in  his  patch  of  corn  land  in  the 
Pocket.  Only  last  week,  a  shotgun  under  his  crippled 
arm,  the  gaunt  quarry  worker  had  come  upon  the  sur 
veyors  on  his  land  running  the  line  for  the  diversion 
dam  and  forbade  them  further  entry.  Harlan  remem 
bered  that  he  had  heard  Marryat,  the  good-natured 
sheriff,  telling  his  father  that  he  would  have  to  drive 
out  and  have  a  little  friendly  talk  with  John.  The  som 
ber  quarryman  was  a  ''bit  off"  maybe.  Taken  his  chil 
dren  out  of  school,  forbade  them  to  mix  with  the  town 
boys  and  all  that.  The  judge  had  not  answered.  Har 
lan  knew  in  his  heart  there  was  a  grief  and  an  outrage 
he  would  not  reveal.  People  had  whispered  that  John 


216  THE   MIDLANDERS 

had  become  an  outlaw  from  the  day  Judge  Van  Hart 
put  the  taint  of  the  jail  on  him. 

Then  to  Harlan's  mind  the  thought  of  Lindstrom 
brought  the  memory  of  another  summer — the  long 
quiet  evenings  when  he  had  met  Aurelie  in  the  hills. 
It  seemed  that  he  must  have  been  desperately  sorry  for 
her  to  love  her  so.  That  was  it — her  pathos  and  her 
grace  and  prettiness  and  all  the  magic  of  the  summer. 
Now  he  heard  her  discussed  about  the  verandas  by  the 
nice  girls  he  knew — her  notoriety,  the  laughable  idea 
of  her  going  on  the  stage !  And  backed  financially  by 
the  McFetridge  boys !  It  seemed  to  Harlan,  as  the 
nice  girls  talked  of  it  in  the  hammocks  and  over  their 
ices,  that  all  that  was  cheap,  unworthy,  grotesque,  ut 
terly  apart  from  all  he  had  known,  had  come  to  gather 
about  Aurelie. 

"Imagine!"  said  Elise  Dickinson  in  a  group  about 
his  mother's  porch  one  evening.  "A  traveling  man  who 
came  in  papa's  store  yesterday  told  him  that  Aurelie 
Lindstrom  was  being  billed  in  a  stock  company  as  the 
One  Hundred  Thousand  Dollar  Prize  Beauty — and 
was  wearing  diamonds !  I  don't  suppose  they  are 
real!" 

Mrs.  Van  Hart  was  watching  Harlan's  face.  She 
was  thankful  that  none  of  the  younger  set  had  ever 
known  of  her  son's  summer  infatuation.  Now  Har 
lan's  firm  lips  closed  as  coldly,  his  square  jaw  set  as 
hard  as  his  mother's  had  done  the  night  Aurelie  was 
dismissed.  The  mother's  placidity  was  unruffled.  "As 
real,  my  dear,"  she  murmured,  "as  her  beauty  prize. 
As  an  advertisement  for  the  newspaper  she  was  un 
doubtedly  a  success,  however.  But  the  diamonds — are 


FIGHTING   BLOOD  217 

those  men  who  used  to  run  the  livery-stable  still  her 
managers  ?" 

Ever  so  carelessly !  But  Harlan's  jaw  set  more  dog 
gedly.  She  had  stung  the  last  refuge  of  his  pride. 
The  McFetridge  boys — and  Aurelie ! 

And  the  story  of  those  diamonds  wandered  over  the 
town  and  grew  and  grew.  First  a  mere  brooch,  then  a 
necklace — after  that  a  tiara!  Playter,  the  druggist, 
told  Wiley  Curran  of  Hen  McFetridge  clothing  Aure 
lie  in  diamonds  out  of  the  exploitation  of  his  doubtful 
oil  speculations,  and  Wiley  called  him  a  liar.  The 
News  lost  another  advertising  contract  right  there. 

Wiley  told  Aunt  Abby  about  it  that  night  at  supper. 
She  looked  curiously  at  his  drawn  face.  "Wiley,  I 
don't  believe  it.  That  girl's  as  good  as  gold.  And 
good  girls  don't  sell  their  virtue,  Wiley — they  give  it 
away,  maybe,  because  they  love.  And  Aurelie  doesn't 
love  Hen  McFetridge — the  twins  just  amuse  her.  Her 
letters  show  that." 

And  the  old  lady  waddled  to  the  Sewing  Circle  that 
night  to  hear  what  she  could  hear,  to  defend  what 
might  be  defended.  There  was  need.  Aurelie  was  the 
town's  daughter  of  scarlet  long  before  half  the.  mission 
ary  boxes  were  filled  that  year,  and  the  Shakespeare 
Club  was  done  with  its  critical  study  of  Desdemona's 
story.  Aunt  Abby  was  unable  to  counteract  the  Shake 
speare  Club  digressions,  for  the  Shakespeare  Club  was 
composed  almost  wholly  of  High  Street  ladies.  And 
Shakespeare  Club  gossip,  though  covert  and  well-bred, 
was  as  deadly.  The  Rome  Shakespeare  Club  held  itself 
aloof.  The  Earlville  Woman's  Club  was  busy  with 
civic  programs.  Every  time  the  Rome  Shakespearian 


218  THE    MIDLANDERS 

ladies  had  a  paper  on  Twelfth  Night  or  Lear,  the  Earl- 
ville  women  had  a  protest  to  the  city  council  about 
street  lighting  or  the  saloons  or  the  need  of  shade  trees. 
As  the  Mercury- Journal  said:  "The  Woman's  Club 
was  the  livest  booster  in  the  burg." 

The  Rome  women  never  boosted  anybody  except 
Shakespeare  or  Ruskin,  or  The  Intellectual  Develop 
ment  of  Europe,  or  The  Court  of  Louis  XIV. 

There  were  two  persons  in  Rome  who  were  silent 
about  that  gossip  concerning  Aurelie.  Harlan,  loung 
ing  in  Wiley's  shop  as  of  old,  after  the  day's  grind, 
reading  state  exchanges  and  bantering  the  editor  on 
politics,  never  asked  of  her ;  nor  did  Wiley  relate  of  her 
letters.  Apparently  their  friendship  drifted  back  to 
the  old  affection,  yet  there  was  this  one  reserve. 

Wiley  would  look  up  from  his  job-press  to  find  Har- 
lan's  serious  face  turned  to  him  in  a  study.  Harlan 
was  easily  the  best-dressed  man  in  the  county;  even 
the  drummers  about  the  Elks'  Club  in  Earlville,  or  the 
Hotel  Metropole,  were  no  more  punctilious  as  to  busi 
ness  garb.  And  Wiley  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and  well 
inked  sleeves  at  that.  Invariably  they  drawled  at  each 
other  with  summer  laziness :  "Hot,  isn't  it,  Harlan?" 

"Yes." 

"Bucking  hard?" 

"Some  dinky  line-fence  case  Donley  turned  over  to 
me.  Justice  court.  Term's  closed,  and  dad  is  off  to 
the  St.  Lawrence  for  vacation." 

"Make  a  note  of  it.  Farmer  caught  a  big  catfish — 
seventy  pounds — at  Ellick's  Ford  Thursday.  Dig  up 
a  squib  about  that  I" 

Harlan  lazily  wrote  out  the  copy;  it  was  the  old 


FIGHTING    BLOOD  219 

high-school  habit  to  help  Wiley  get  out  the  News3 
personals.  Also  to  jibe  the  editor  about  his  paper. 
"Worst  country  sheet  in  Iowa,  Wiley — worse  and 
Worst  f 

"I  know.  But  still  able  to  squawk  occasionally." 
Wiley  was  distributing  type  as  Jim  Mims  was  fishing. 
He  kicked  the  job-press  half  an  hour,  and  then  did  the 
printer's  work  under  the  impression  that  he  was  get 
ting  both  tasks  farther  advanced  somehow  or  other. 
"Still  able  to  make  Old  Thad  cuss.  Even  if  his  Retail 
Merchants'  Association  is  doing  its  best  to  head  off  all 
my  advertising.  Thad  can  round  up  the  county  to  put 
through  his  Sin  Creek  steal,  but  still  the  News  can 
call  attention  to  it." 

Harlan  stirred :  "Still  you  praised  my  argument  be 
fore  the  board." 

"That  was  you,  son!  But  as  to  the  creek  diversion, 
every  one  of  those  poor  devils  in  the  Pocket  will  be 
drowned  out." 

"They  haven't  a  sign  of  title.  And  every  property 
owner  on  the  north  side  will  benefit." 

"Sure." 

"You're  hurting  your  political  chances,  Wiley." 

"I  know.  But  I  can't  help  that.  The  under  dog 
gets  me,  Harlan.  I  been  one,  myself.  I  have  to  fight 
for  'em !  Mine  own  people !  I  can't  stop  to  consider 
whose  land  is  benefited,  or  who  has  the  title  at  law. 
I'm  only  thinking  of  those  people  who  fought  floods 
and  droughts  and  stumps  to  make  themselves  their 
little  corn  patches  and  keep  their  children  alive  on  them 
down  there.  The  News — "  his  hand  patted  the  splin 
tered  old  type  case  fondly — "it's  always  fought  that 


220  THE   MIDLANDERS 

way,  somehow !  It's  never  right — it's  always  wrong. 
Ask  any  of  the  law-abiding,  respectable  people  in  town 
and  they'll  tell  you  so." 

Harlan  smiled.  "Here  on  the  start  of  your  primary 
campaign,  you're  making  enemies  of  your  home  peo 
ple.  And  I  want  you  to  succeed,  Wiley.  In  spite  of 
Hall  being  a  friend  of  father's — and  everything.  I 
hate  greed  and  oppression  as  badly  as  you  do.  Only — " 

"That's  it — only!  It's  hard  to  go  against  one's  class, 
isn't  it?  Hate  oppression,  hate  wrong — only  except 
one's  privilege,  one's  class,  one's  tradition.  Why, 
right  here  between  you  and  me,  boy — in  our  little  prosy 
village,  is  the  whole  problem  which  confronts  the  na 
tion  !  We  give  to  Tanner,  to  the  property  owners — 
our  sort — the  privilege  of  exploiting  others  who  can't 
help  themselves.  And  a  hoary  tradition  of  the  courts 
exists  to  defend  the  privilege.  The  courts" — he 
checked  himself,  but  hotly — "Harlan,  come  on  over  to 
Earlville  to  dinner  with  us  Sunday  night  and  meet  this 
McBride,  the  chap  who's  organizing  the  soft  coal 
miners.  He's  a  new  article  in  this  county — and  he's 
behind  me  in  this  fight  against  Hall.  I  want  you  to 
meet  him." 

"McBride,  the  man  who  defied  the  supreme  court 
last  year  and  went  to  jail  for  it?" 

"Yes.  I'm  glad  he  did.  He  made  a  lot  of  people 
stop  and  think — and  that's  what  we're  after." 

The  judge's  son  smiled  tolerantly.  "All  right.  I'd 
like  to  see  him.  I'm  curious.  But  his  friendship  won't 
help  you,  Wiley." 

Wiley  smiled  in  turn.  But  thus  it  came  about  that 
Harlan  and  Arne  Vance  came  over  to  the  seventy-five- 


FIGHTING    BLOOD  221 

cent  table  d'hote  dinner  at  the  Hotel  Metropole  to  meet 
Mike  McBride.  The  dining-room  of  the  Hotel  Metro- 
pole,  all  excessively  new  and  Earlvillian,  with  a  tapes 
tried  wall  of  stiff-necked  steeplechasers,  gorgeous  dogs 
in  four  colors  climbing  a  fence ;  while  over  a  bulging 
and  lavender  hill  dashed  a  motor-car,  the  cloud  of  dust 
and  the  ladies'  veils  forming  a  diaphanous  perspective 
in  five  more  colors,  which,  with  the  Hunt  Club  dogs  and 
the  riders'  coats,  made  the  picture  of  General  Parsons 
above  the  Parsons  House  mantel  over  in  Rome,  seem 
old  and  faded.  You  would  understand  at  once  that  it 
belonged  in  a  town  which  had  an  interurban,  and  an 
Elks'  Club,  and  pressed  its  trousers,  along  with  other 
cocky  modernity.  But  neither  Arne  Vance  nor  Wiley 
T.  Curran  let  on  to  being  impressed,  for  they  had  dined 
in  a  number  of  the  beplastered  and  multi-colored  cafes 
of  ambitious  western  cities.  And  Harlan,  on  his  first 
visit  to  the  Metropole,  looked  about  with  a  smile  and 
then  at  McBride  as  he  stirred  his  demi-tasse — even  the 
girl  waiters  said  demi-tasse — now  in  Earlville. 

'This  is  a  live-wire  town,"  McBride  was  saying, 
"and  when  it  gets  through  laying  out  parks  and  boost 
ing  factories  it's  going  to  go  after  you  fellows  over  in 
Rome  who've  run  the  county  so  long."  He  was  a 
short,  thick,  red-browed  man  to  whom  one  would 
rather  break  disagreeable  news  over  the  telephone.  His 
fingers  were  hard  and  stubby,  and  he  dug  sugar  out  of 
the  bowl  and  dumped  it  into  his  demi-tasse  without  so 
much  as  a  glance  at  the  dogs  done  in  four  colors.  He 
went  after  local  affairs  like  a  man  who  could  assimilate 
more  significant  facts  in  a  week  than  all  the  best  peo 
ple  of  the  county  could  discover  in  a  lifetime.  "That 


222  THE    MIDLANDERS 

county  ring  has  run  things  ever  since  the  war,  and  long 
as  the  tax  rate  wasn't  too  high  the  business  people 
didn't  growl,  and  Tanner  fixed  every  board  to  suit  him 
self — and  hogged  all  the  county  work.  He's  a  good 
man,  this  Tanner — I  like  his  method — he  gets  things. 
But  we  ought  to  get  him.  A  live  grand  jury  would 
smoke  him  out  in  no  time.  And  a  district  attorney 
who'd  throw  the  gaff.  The  one  you  got  is  a  crook." 

"I  agree,"  murmured  Wiley — he  felt  too  amiable 
after  his  seventy-five  cent  occasion,  with  dogs  in  four 
colors,  to  be  the  zealot.  "New  blood  is  needed.  But 
there's  some  good  men  on  our  side  the  creek,  also." 

"Skunk?"  queried  McBride. 

"Sinsinawa." 

"Call  it  Skunk.  Then  we'll  get  down  to  brass  tacks. 
I  always  wanted  to  talk  with  some  of  you  fellows  from 
the  county  seat.  State  labor  is  right  with  the  governor 
in  this  progressive  fight.  That's  the  reason  I'm  down 
here.  I'm  here  until  this  district  is  organized  by  the 
Delroy  crowd.  The  governor  wants  Fairchild's  seat  in 
the  senate,  and  he  wants  Jim  Hall's  scalp  in  congress, 
because  he  thinks  Hall  will  get  the  old  crowd's  support 
for  it  if  Fairchild  can't  win  out.  So  he  and  his  people 
are  going  to  put  Curran  over  and  I'm  with  'em.  I  ain't 
no  reformer,  but  labor  is  going  with  'em.  But  first  we 
ought  to  clean  up  this  county." 

Wiley  mused.  Arne,  his  black  eyes  snapping,  lis 
tened  as  if  a  fresh  breath  had  come  somewhere  out  of 
a  fighting  world.  Harlan  wondered  rather  satirically 
why  an  outsider  should  come  down  here  and  talk  like 
a  man  of  authority. 


FIGHTING   BLOOD  223 

"The  Catholic  vote  in  them  new  mines  where  the 
Poles  and  dagos  have  come  in,  it'll  be  for  Curran," 
went  on  McBride.  "Father  Doyle  gives  it  to  me 
straight.  All  that's  good.  And  this  new  Earlville 
contracting  company,  which  is  sore  over  Tanner  gob 
bling  all  the  work,  is  going  to  unload  on  the  old  ring. 
Ain't  any  r^-form  going  to  get  far  unless  some  one  ex 
pects  to  clean  up  something.  Take  it  from  me.  We're 
going  to  elect  Curran." 

Harlan  had  listened  more  acutely.  He  had  begun 
to  resent  Wiley's  problematical  success.  McBride  was 
worse  than  he  had  dreamed.  His  father's  ideals  of 
politics  had  not  encompassed  such  brute  truth.  Mc 
Bride  turned  his  blue  eyes  under  their  red  brows  di 
rectly  on  him. 

"Are  you  the  man  they're  talking  of  for  district  at 
torney  ?" 

Harlan  stared  at  him  incredulously.  The  easy  in 
gratiating  standards  of  his  father's  sort  of  men  around 
the  court-house,  even  the  rustic  geniality  of  the  county 
board  members,  he  felt  equal  to,  but  this  ruthless  anal 
ysis  and  militant  directness  of  the  man  of  new  condi 
tions  jarred  him.  He  still  stared  at  McBride. 

"Come  out,"  rasped  McBride,  "we  can  put  you  over 
this  year.  I  hear  you'll  do — Vance,  Curran,  here- 
put  it  up  that  way." 

Harlan  turned  to  them  with  a  laugh.  Since  when 
had  Arne  and  Wiley  and  a  few  unknowns  took  it  to 
themselves  to  parcel  out  the  county  offices  ?  These  au 
dacious  rebels,  without  authority,  without  organiza 
tion  ?  It  was  actually  humorous ! 


224  THE    MIDLANDERS 

"We  want  to  trim  this  crook — Tanner — and  an  hon 
est  district  attorney  can  do  it." 

Still  Harlan  was  silent.  He  knew  that  secretly  his 
father  deprecated  Thad  Tanner.  And  Jewett,  the 
prosecutor,  was  not  invited  to  his  father's  house.  Still 
that  did  not  keep  Jewett  out  of  office.  His  father  was 
a  good  man.  But  here  was  a  different  good — the  fight 
ing  good  of  the  new  order. 

"How  about  it  ?"  pursued  McBride. 

Harlan  smiled  at  length,  complacently  on  the  labor 
man.  "No,  thanks,  McBride,  I  think  I'll  stick  to  the 
law  yet  a  while."  He  was  thinking  how  funny  it  would 
be  to  tell  his  father  of  the  trio  sitting  in  the  baldly  new 
dining-room  of  the  Metropole  plotting  against  that 
ancient  and'  honorable  thing — Winnetka  County  poli 
tics.  It  had  not  been  rippled  since  James  G.  Blaine. 

"You  young  men  are  needed,"  went  on  McBride ; 
"instead  of  going  off  to  Canada  and  the  cheap  lands, 
or  to  the  cities,  you  ought  to  be  right  here  making  your 
fight.  There's  big  chances — rough  knocks  and  big 
chances." 

"I  have  mine,"  retorted  Harlan  quietly.  He  was 
conscious  of  Wiley's  look  upon  him,  appealing,  sorrow 
ful — and  of  Arne's  subdued  belligerency.  They  had 
apparently  been  talking  of  him  to  McBride — the 
strongest  young  man  in  the  county ! 

"See  here,  we  need  you" — there  was  a  flash  of  men 
ace  in  McBride's  tone.  "You'll  make  a  name,  too,  clean 
ing  up  that  crooked  board.  Go  after  your  courts,  too. 
They're  not  right.  Here's  this  man,  Lindstrom,  they 
tell  me  about — gone  crazy  over  religion.  The  quarry- 
man  who  lost  an  arm  and  then  his  damage  suit  against 


FIGHTING   BLOOD  225 

Tanner  on  a  technicality — and  then  was  sent  over  on 
a  contempt  charge.  Why,  your  court  made  a  criminal 
right  there !" 

Wiley  saw  Harlan's  face  turn  an  ugly  red.  McBride 
went  on:  "Here  the  court  wrecks  a  man  over  some 
holier-than-thou  tradition  of  the  law.  That's  the  stuff 
the  courts  hand  out." 

Harlan  was  on  his  feet.  His  clenched  hand  shot 
across  the  table  near  McBride's  face.  "See  here — the 
judge  who  made  that  decision  was  my  father!" 

McBride  stared  back:  "Your  father?" 

"Yes !  And  no  man  can  speak  that  way  of  him  !" 

There  was  silence  through  the  begingered  and  tap 
estried  room.  Arne  and  Wiley  sat  back.  There  was 
nothing  else  to  do  between  man  and  man.  McBride, 
the  older,  the  rugged  powerful  figure ;  and  Harlan 
with  the  anger  of  a  young  god,  fair,  handsome,  tower 
ing  over  him. 

"You  take  that  back!"  roared  Harlan. 

McBride  slowly  relaxed.  He  watched  the  other  un 
ceasingly. 

"Apologize !" 

McBride  sat  farther  back  on  his  chair.  A  slow 
smile  came  to  his  face  as  he  looked  up  at  the  youth. 

"Young  man,  I  was  raised  on  a  slag  pile  in  Pennsyl 
vania.  I  never  saw  the  sun  shine  except  Sundays  and 
the  time  my  father  was  killed,  until  I  was  twenty-four, 
it  seems  to  me.  I  been  hungry  so  many  times  in  my 
life  that  sometimes  now  it  ain't  natural  to  eat.  You 
can't  know  by  any  manner  of  means  what  that's  like. 
I'm  a  rough  man  and  I  work  with  rough  men,  but  I 
know  a  man  when  I  see  one,  Sit  down," 


226  THE    MIDLANDERS 

"Apologize!''  shouted  Harlan. 

McBride  looked  long  and  grimly  at  him.  "Well," 
he  growled,  "if  your  father  raised  you  to  stand  up  like 
this  with  the  fighting  blood  hot  in  you — I  guess  I'm 
wrong.  Now,  if  that's  an  apology,  take  it.  If  it  ain't 
—to  hell  with  you !" 

Harlan  stood  quivering.  "Sit  down,  boy,"  whispered 
Wiley.  The  room  was  dumb.  Even  the  waiter  girls 
knew  who  young  Van  Hart  was. 

Harlan  whirled  suddenly  to  the  rack  and  took  his 
hat.  Then  he  turned  to  the  group  at  the  table.  "See 
here — just  now  I  told  you  I  wouldn't  take  a  nomina 
tion  for  district  attorney.  Well,  just  because  of  this 
insult,  I'll  run !  Yes — and  not  on  your  ticket,  either !" 

He  had  started  for  the  office.  McBride's  cold  eye 
followed  him.  Then  he  was  on  his  feet  and  about  the 
table. 

"Shake !"  he  growled.    "I'm  with  you  I" 

Harlan  stared  at  him  without  speaking.  Man  to 
man,  and  something  in  McBride's  eye  went  through 
him.  "Well,"  he  muttered,  "I  suppose  you  didn't  mean 
it  against  father!"  He  took  the  labor  leader's  hard 
square  palm.  "But,  damn  you,  I'll  run  against  you !" 

McBride  was  laughing  softly.  His  eyes  were  bright 
ening.  "Good !  But  you  can't — I'm  with  you  !" 

Harlan  glanced  at  his  wondering  friends.  "I'm 
going,"  he  announced,  and  left  the  room. 

McBride's  look  was  on  him  until  he  reached  the 
hotel  office.  Then  he  pointed :  "The  son-of-a-gun ! 
He's  payin'  for  his  own  dinner !"  Then  he  looked  bel 
ligerently  at  Wiley  Curran  and  Arne. 


FIGHTING   BLOOD  227 

"Mac,"  put  in  Wiley,  "the  squarest  chap  you  ever 
saw — and  the  county's  best  people." 

"I  know  it.  My  kind  of  people.  Fightin'  blood. 
I'm  goin'  to  support  him !" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  JINNEE  OF  THE  TAILOR-MADE 

MISS  VANCE  met  Harlan  one  afternoon  of  mid 
August.  He  stopped  his  saunter  across  the 
courtyard  lawn  to  help  her  hitch  her  span  of  fractious 
colts.  She  pressed  a  handkerchief  to  her  flushed  face. 

'Thank  you !  You  look  so  awfully  cool,  Harlan. 
And  clean!  You've  been  driving,  too — and  look  at 
me!" 

His  leisurely  smile  followed  her  interested  glance. 
It  was  their  first  meeting  since  he  had  announced 
his  candidacy  for  the  district  attorneyship — a  brief 
announcement,  coming  after  an  equally  brief  con 
ference  with  the  party  leaders.  The  outside  infor 
mation  was  that  the  Honorable  Thaddeus  Tanner  had 
selected  young  Mr.  Van  Hart  as  the  best  and  most  rep 
resentative  young  man  of  the  county  to  give  strength 
to  the  old-line  ticket  against  the  new  progressive 
league.  There  was  some  comment  on  his  youth  and 
lack  of  experience,  but  it  was  regarded  as  a  shrewd 
move  nevertheless  of  the  old  court-house  ring.  County 
politicians  said  there  would  be  none  to  contest  young 
Mr.  Van  Hart's  nomination  or  election. 

Now,  Miss  Vance  looked  him  over  and  sighed.  "I 
feel  a  grudge  against  you,  Harlan!  I  wish  fortune 
would  give  you  a  quarrel  now  and  then.  Everything 

228 


JINNEE   OF   THE   TAILOR-MADE      229 

comes  so  easily  to  you.  But  this  is  mere  envy,  isn't  it  ?" 

He  smiled  and  walked  with  her  to  the  News  office. 
The  sense  of  his  rugged  fineness  and  clean  truth 
gripped  her  as  it  must  all  women. 

"Your  battle  will  come  after  you're  elected,  Harlan. 
They — they  will  expect  to  use  you  as  they  do- — "  she 
hesitated.  She  had  been  about  to  say  "your  father", 
and  then  knew  better.  Harlan  had  the  same  charm  of 
breeding  as  his  father ;  but  the  county  ring  had  kept  the 
judge  in  office  for  twenty  years;  it  found  its  strength 
among  "the  best  people". 

"Nobody  owns  me,  Janet."  He  found  amusement  in 
her  caution.  "And  as  for  politics,  here  is  Arne,  and 
those  other  long-horn  students,  traveling  over  the 
county  trying  to  interest  the  farmers  in  seed  selection. 
The  state  board  pays  their  way,  but  now,  really,  aren't 
they  out  to  talk  politics  for  the  governor  and  our  ec 
centric  friend,  Wiley  T.  Curran?" 

She  smiled  in  turn.  She  was  too  practical-minded 
to  be  sensitive  over  the  methods  by  which  any  move 
ment  of  party  interest  was  attained.  When  they 
reached  the  News  door  Mr.  Curran  was  standing  there, 
a  galley  of  type  in  his  hand.  He  waved  to  the  prospect 
past  the  town,  a  spurt  of  yellow  stubble  like  a  flame 
licking  down  from  the  upland  corn  which  was  now 
high. 

"I  can  smell  the  tassel  bloom,"  murmured  Wiley, 
"and  the  damp  cloddy  earth,  and  hear  the  rustle  of  the 
blades  in  the  breeze  off  the  river.  Bless  me,  I  was 
about  to  knock  off  and  steal  away  to  the  hills,  but  here 
you  two  come,  abominably  suggesting  work.  And  am 
bition — and  achievement !" 


230  THE    MIDLANDERS 

"Indeed  we  do!"  Janet  smiled  at  his  whimsical 
grimace.  "And  to  remind  you  what  the  papers  said 
of  your  speech  at  the  Dallas  County  fair.  'Brilliant/ 
'aggressive/  'eloquent!' " 

His  grimace  deepened.  Through  the  weeks  Janet 
had  watched  his  progress.  He  had  astonished  every 
one  as  a  campaigner ;  "tricky,"  his  opponents  said,  but 
winning  by  his  likableness.  He  had  been  filled  with 
a  boy's  delight  to  discover  that  he  could  really  speak  in 
public — that  his  old  nervous  hesitance  had  gone  like  a 
mist  before  his  new  ardors,  his  mercurial  enthusiasms. 
Out  in  the  other  counties  he  had  won  dashingly ;  but 
among  his  home  people,  he  confided  to  Janet,  he  was  a 
"lame  duck". 

He  could  not  explain  that.  She  knew  it  was  because 
here  they  had  seen  his  purpose,  his  hope,  his  imagina 
tive  life  come  to  nothing.  He  was  of  that  type  of 
which  the  towns  and  provincial  cities  have  many — a 
person  whose  chaste  tastes,  intellectual  aspirations  and 
social  qualities  had  starved  under  the  stress  of  making 
a  livelihood.  Ideas,  finer  achievement,  all  bartered 
with  the  standards  fixed  by  a  vulgar  need.  Janet 
herself  had  felt  the  impact;  she  knew  his  battle.  And 
so  long  he  had  given  up  !  And  so  late  had  arisen !  He 
seemed  to  have  forgot  his  useless  years,  his  defeats, 
he  had  gone  out  among  men,  and  they  had  honored  him. 

To-day  he  was  in  one  of  his  "slumps".  Janet  went 
on  with  her  ingenious  encouragement.  "I  wish  you 
knew  what  a  rare  mystery  you  are  to  the  country  peo 
ple.  And  how  splendidly  they  believe  in  you !  You're 
a  new  sort  of  politician.  And  I'm  very  proud,  Wiley !" 

He  still  looked  ruefully  at  her.     "The  fool  editor," 


JINNEE   OF   THE   TAILOR-MADE      231 

he  mourned — "I  wonder  if  I  spoke  here — as  I  must 
sometime — who'd  turn  out  to  listen?  You  and  Aunt 
Abby,  and  my  printer,  and  doubtless  the  undertaker." 
He  sighed,  and  waved  his  hand  out  to  the  town. 
"Sometimes  the  old  feeling  comes  back.  I  don't  belong 
here.  I'm  the  misfit,  Janet.  The  dreamer" — he  let 
his  eyes  go  off  to  the  summer  land.  It  was  too  rich ; 
never  had  it  hungered,  and  never  from  it  could  arise 
his  epic  song — never  from  this  would  come  the  watch 
ers  of  dawns.  "I  think,  sometimes,  even  now,  that  I 
ought  to  be  a  starving  poet  in  a  garret.  Eh,  then, 
Janet!  I'd  do  something!"  He  came  to  Harlan  with 
his  direct  affection  and  put  a  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of 
the  younger  man.  "I'd  like  to  be  back  where  you  are, 
boy!  And  start  anew — the  slate  clean!"  He  smiled 
sadly.  "What  absurdity — me  a  politician !" 

He  could  run  on  thus  with  these  two, — Janet,  with 
whom  he  had  been  schoolmate,  and  Harlan,  whom  he 
had  loved  after  his  return.  These  two  had  made  life 
livable  in  his  shabby  years — they  had  understood. 
They  had  made  him  keep  faith  with  himself.  "I  need 
you  two,"  he  murmured ;  "oh,  I  need  you !" 

They  saw  his  eyes,  the  fondness  in  them,  watching 
out  the  door.  Then  he  cried  out. 

Carmichael's  bus  was  at  his  platform.  Two  women 
were  getting  out.  One  was  a  stout  light-haired  person. 
The  other  was  Aurelie  Lindstrom.  She  dropped  her 
suit  case,  and  lifting  her  veil,  ran  forward  to  Mr.  Cur- 
ran.  And  she  kissed  him  ! 

Mr.  Curran  colored.  He  was  dumfounded.  He 
gasped.  This  Aurelie !  This  being,  so  mischievous 
with  laughter,  so  rippling  with  life,  so  complete  with 


232  THE    MIDLANDERS 

happiness,  and  confident  with  saucy  tricks  and  clothes 
and  personality! 

"Glad  to  see  me,  mon  ami!  Yes — no."  She  was 
laughing  on,  chattering  her  barbarous  French.  "Me 
— the  little  savage !  Aurelie!  Am  I  changed?" 

She  turned  with  an  odd  foreignness  and  shrugged, 
displaying  herself  for  him.  And  then  she  saw  Miss 
Vance,  and  checked  herself.  Then  Harlan,  and  gasped. 
But  she  came  to  him  with  the  most  natural  grace  and 
held  out  a  hand. 

"And  Harlan — glad  to  see  me,  are  you?"  Then  to 
Janet :  "And  you  ?  I  reckon  this  old  town  won't  know 
me!"  She  turned  with  a  little  flutter  of  happiness. 
Janet  decided  that  Aurelie  had  discovered  herself,  a 
rare  trick  of  making  the  most  of  whatever  came  her 
way,  with  a  natural  player's  perception  of  values.  It 
all  enhanced  her  blithe  drollery,  this  bit  of  the  manners 
of  the  world,  and  she  had  the  wit  to  utilize  it.  In  no 
other  way  could  Janet  account  for  the  amazingly 
changed  Aurelie.  Her  lonely  pride,  her  defeated 
pathos  were  gone. 

She  introduced  the  stranger  with  a  jubilant  confi 
dence.  "This  is  Ada  Norman,  and  she  was  our  heavy 
woman."  She  sank  into  Mr.  Curran's  chair  with  an 
air  of  having  done  the  situation  carelessly  well.  Then 
she  raised  her  big  black  eyes  limpidly  to  young  Mr.  Van 
Hart,  with  that  belying  spiritual  pensiveness  which 
must  once  have  so  ensnared  him.  "She  knows  how  to 
be  the  coquette,"  mused  Miss  Vance — and  glanced 
keenly  at  Mr.  Curran. 

Mr.  Curran  was  staring  at  Aurelie  with  frank  de 
light.  Janet  was  swiftly  aware  that  his  despondency 


JINNEE    OF    THE    TAILOR-MADE      233 

of  the  hour  had  vanished.  He  was  in  the  clouds,  his 
inescapable  romance,  the  love  of  the  bizarre  and  the 
daring,  had  seized  him.  "Aurelie,  you  incredible 
child !"  he  cried.  "How — how — splendidly  you  look !" 

Indeed  she  did.  She  knew  it.  She  found  happiness 
in  it. 

"Mr.  Curran,"  she  smiled:  "you're  the  only  person 
— except  Uncle  Mich — who  ever  understood  me  a  bit !" 

Harlan  and  Janet  were  silent.  If  Aurelie  was  the 
vulgarian,  this  was  supposable  in  her  world  of  vul 
garians.  Morris  Feldman  would  assure  you  that  the 
thing  was  to  get  the  money  and  the  press  stuff.  He 
was  confident  that  Miss  Lindstrom  could  do  both.  And 
wear  clothes.  What  else  was  needful  ? 

Wiley  saw  Harlan's  eyes  fastened  on  Aurelie's  hand. 
He  knew  that  Janet  also  was  thinking  of  the  story  of 
Hen  McFetridge's  diamonds.  But  Aurelie  wore  only 
one  little  ring!  Mr.  Curran  glanced  defiantly  at  the 
others.  Janet  looked  at  him  with  a  sudden  sickness  of 
heart.  He  was  shining-eyed.  It  took  this  to  delight 
his  vagabond  soul — a  girl  of  fluffy  clothes,  the  charm  of 
adventure  out  in  the  world,  airs  and  appealing  graces, 
the  typical  feminine — and  he  had  succumbed. 

"Janet!"  he  cried.  "Do  you  remember  her?  The 
little  rabbit-hunting  savage  up  in  the  hills,  the  defying 
school  child  with  a  heart  none  could  ever  find?" 

"Nobody  ever  tried,"  said  the  savage  with  a  smile. 
"Nobody!" 

"Indeed  not,"  drawled  the  languid  Miss  Norman, 
"unless  it's  all  the  babies  and  beggars.   I  wonder  how 
many  rehearsals  she's  been  fined  just  for  them!" 
"It's  frm !"  burst  out  Aurelie.    "To  have  some  money 


234  THE    MIDLANDERS 

and  give  it  away.  And  to  tickle  babies — it  makes  'em 
stare  so !  Miss  Norman  and  I  are  going  to  New  York 
and  try  to  get  on,  but  honest,  I'd  rather  have  a  baby." 

Young  Mr.  Van  Hart  looked  at  Mr.  Curran.  Mr. 
Curran  laughed  gracelessly.  Miss  Vance  was  begin 
ning  to  smile.  She  was  concluding  that  Aurelie  was 
comical.  Slangy,  droll,  good-hearted,  honest — but  all 
that  spiritual  chasteness  of  her  face — when  she  was  not 
laughing — would  be  harmless  after  all ! 

"New  York,'*  went  on  Aurelie.  "If  one  is  going  to 
really  act,  one  must  go  there.  And  starve,  maybe. 
But  Ada  says  I  won't.  She  knows  we'll  get  on,  and 
the  managers  will  listen  to  me.  You  know  they  said 
in  Denver  it  wasn't  just  my  face.  They  said  I  was 
worth  while — in  the  newspapers." 

"She  certainly  is,"  put  in  Miss  Norman.  "I  never 
saw  any  one  work  a  part  so  hard — all  the  tricky  bits. 
And  it  doesn't  seem  work  with  her.  And  she  can  wear 
clothes,  and  in  the  business  that's  everything!" 

The  "heavy  woman"  looked  down  at  herself.  She 
was  quite  forty  and  the  stock  companies  Had  made  her 
feel  it.  "An  old  trouper  like  me,"  she  went  on, 
"watches  a  lot  of  these  kids  smoke  up  and  go  out.  But 
Aurelie,  here,  is  class.  Where  she  got  it,  God  knows !" 

"When  Hen  and  Ben  make  another  fortune,"  pur 
sued  Aurelie,  "they're  going  to  buy  the  tin  opera-house, 
and  I'll  come  back  a  leading  woman  and  show  these  old 
grannies  something!" 

Miss  Norman  laughed  wearily.  Plainly  Hen  and 
Ben  were  provocative  of  glee  to  professional  people. 
"Angel  Hen !"  she  murmured. 

"Good  old  Hen !"  said  Aurelie.     Then,  quite  inno- 


JINNEE   OF   THE   TAILOR-MADE      235 

cently,  "Mr.  Curran,  do  you  know  Hen  McFetridge 
wanted  to  marry  me?" 

"N-no — "  Mr.  Curran  looked  evasively  at  Harlan. 
Janet  had  an  impression  that  Harlan  was  fighting 
down  a  blaze  of  anger. 

"But  then,"  went  on  Aurelie — "everybody  was  good 
to  me." 

"Wanting  to  marry  you,  Aurelie?"  faltered  Mr. 
Curran ;  "do  you  call  that  being  good  to  you  ?" 

"Of  course,"  demurely,  "at  least  it's  interesting." 

Harlan  was  on  his  feet..  He  attempted  to  pass  her, 
and  she  looked  up  in  wonder. 

"You're  not  going,  Harlan.  Why,  sit  down.  Tell 
me  all  about  yourself.  I  thought" — she  hesitated — 
"since  you'd  been  East  you'd  be  a  great  man  by  now !" 

"I'm  practising  law  here,"  he  answered  quietly. 

"Going  to  settle  down  here?" 

"Yes." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  pity  that  stung  him.  She 
had  grown  so  amazingly  in  the  year.  "I  shouldn't 
think  you  could  stand  it.  I  couldn't.  Oh,  to  be  some 
body!  And  do  something!  I  remember  the  nights  I 
used  to  climb  the  hills  and  stare  off  across  the  river 
and  wonder  and  wonder!  Out  there  was  something  and 
I  wanted  it.  And  if  Mr.  Curran  hadn't  sent  my  picture 
to  the  paper  I'd  have  been  there  yet — climbing  Eagle 
Point  trail  at  sunset  to  watch  the  light  go  out — just 
as  lonely  as  of  old." 

Some  way  or  other  they  were  still.  "And  dear  Old 
Mich!"  she  went  on  softly.  "Done  come  up-river! 
Done  goin'  to  occupy  the  land !  That's  what  he'd  say. 
Done  goin'  to  find  the  land  of  joy!"  She  turned  to 


236  THE    MIDLANDERS 

Wiley  suddenly.  "And  before  I  go,  I'm  going  to  climb 
the  hills  once  more.  And  I'm  going  out  to  see  'em  all, 
if  Papa  Lindstrom  will  let  me  on  the  place.  I  just 
want  somebody  whose  eyes  get  brighter  when  I  come 
among  'em.  And  Uncle  Mich's  will,  Mr.  Curran !" 

"I  know  they  will,  Aurelie.  And  Knute's  and  Pet 
er's  and  the  baby's !  And  surely  all  of  us !  The  land 
of  joy?  You'll  bring  it  to  them  out  there,  Aurelie. 
You've  sent  them  so  much  stuff  and  money — they'd 
have  half-starved  last  winter,  when  Albert,  the  pedler, 
was  sick,  if  you  hadn't  done  that.  John  knew  you 
were  sending  the  money,  too,  but  he  pretended  he  did 
not.  Why,  we  all  like  you,  Aurelie." 

"I'm  glad,"  she  answered,  and  stood  in  the  doorway 
looking  over  the  town  with  a  forgiving  and  proud 
simplicity. 

"They  do  like  her,"  drawled  the  tired  blonde  woman 
from  her  chair.  "I've  been  in  stock  five  years,  and  be 
fore  that  seven  over  the  Beckmeyer  &  Grady  circuit 
spot-lighting  a  song,  and  I've  seen  'em  all.  When  I  tie 
to  a  kid,  she's  got  to  have  it.  Split-week  vaudeville 
and  cheap  stock  don't  leave  you  no  illusions.  But  Au 
relie — I'm  going  to  take  this  kid  to  New  York  and  get 
her  in  right  if  I  have  to  sell  my  shoes." 

"Are  you  going  there  to  act  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Curran 
innocently. 

"Who?  Me?"  The  spot-light  artist  sat  up  and 
turned  her  heavy  good-humored  face  to  him.  "Oh, 
Gawd — me  on  Broadway!  Say,  you're  one  of  these 
jay  humorists,  ain't  you?  Cut  out  the  funny  stuff!" 

"Now,  Ada" — burst  forth  Aurelie — "you  mustn't 
talk  so !  You're  the  best  and  kindest  woman  I  ever 


JINNEE   OF   THE   TAILOR-MADE      237 

knew !"  She  turned  defiantly  to  the  others :  "Oh,  the 
days  and  nights  she  coached  me,  and  rehearsed  me — 
and  dressed  me — and  told  me  how  to  behave  at  hotel 
tables — and  everything!  Mon  Dieu!  Each  night  I 
say  a  little  prayer  for  Ada  Norman!"  She  finished 
softly  and  was  staring  out  the  window.  "Maybe  this 
town  was  right  in  laughing  at  me  in  the  old  days.  I 
guess  I  was  funny !  And  I  felt  so  bitter  when  I  went 
away.  But  sitting  here  in  Mr.  Curran's  old  shop, 
somehow,  all  that  is  dead.  The  birds  singing  up  the 
cliff  and  the  smell  of  the  corn  and  clover — it's  all  so 
peaceful.  I  guess  I  was  wrong — everybody  would  have 
been  my  friend  if  I'd  have  let  them.  And  now  life  is 
big  and  beautiful.  I  almost  think  people  would  be  glad 
to  see  me — I  could  just  love  the  old  place!" 

Miss  Vance  glanced  out  to  where  her  brother  was 
bringing  the  buggy  across  the  street.  Harlan,  in  the 
doorway,  was  listening.  But  only  Mr.  Curran  looked 
at  her.  If  Aurelie  had  breathed  a  prayer  for  forgive 
ness  he  could  not  have  stood  in  more  mute  reverence. 
And  suddenly  Janet  turned  to  see  his  eyes.  Then  she 
crossed  to  Aurelie  and  lifting  the  girl's  face,  kissed  her 
cheek.  She  could  not  tell  what  compassion,  what  un 
utterable  renunciation,  moved  her.  Only  she  knew 
that  to  Curran,  Aurelie  would  ever  be  the  princess 
whom  he  had  released  from  the  witches'  spell.  This 
was  the  secret  of  his  kindling  fires,  his  new  and  exult 
ant  life.  For  Janet  there  would  be  the  steadfast  work, 
the  long  road.  She  would  still  the  faint  dream  of  a 
man's  love.  The  other  sort  of  woman,  the  primal  ap 
peal,  would  win.  Well,  she  did  not  need  this  love, 
then. 


238  THE    MIDLANDERS 

She  left  Aurelie  in  a  shy  surprise,  and  Wiley  in  won 
der  at  this  demonstration.  Janet  was  not  given  to  it. 
He  watched  her  and  Arne  drive  away,  and  Harlan 
cross  to  the  court-house.  They  were  guessing  at  his 
madness,  it  seemed. 

Aurelie  decided  that  she  and  Miss  Norman  would 
put  up  at  the  Parsons  House.  She  wanted  to  be  seen 
by  Miss  Amelia  and  to  order,  with  her  new  air  of  the 
world,  the  best  room  and  to  comment  critically  on  the 
sedate  Parsons  House  dinner.  The  Parsons  family  had 
kept  the  Parsons  House  and  once  had  entertained 
Stephen  A.  Douglas.  Miss  Amelia  kept  the  tradition  as 
well  as  the  hostelry  so  that  she  had  the  eminent  respect, 
if  not  the  patronage,  of  the  best  people. 

Harlan,  from  his  office  window,  looking  absently 
across  the  Square,  saw  Miss  Norman  come  out  of  the 
News  door  and  go  down  the  street  toward  the  Parsons 
House  presently.  Then  she  paused  at  the  corner  of 
the  court-house  park  to  glance  up  at  the  splendor  of  the 
August  maples.  The  birds  were  singing,  and  the  sun 
light  flickered  through.  She  crossed  the  lawn  to  a  seat 
and  sat  down.  Harlan  could  see  her  looking  about, 
drawing  in  the  air  perfumed  with  the  bloom  of  the 
corn  and  the  golden  stubble  up  the  hillsides.  Her 
eyes  closed,  and  after  a  while  she  slept — just  a  tired 
woman  of  forty  who  had  worked  hard  and  had  no 
illusions,  who  was  just  what  the  inevitability  of  work 
and  life  makes  of  all  of  us.  But  about  the  Square,  in 
fifteen  minutes,  gossip  ran.  The  bleached-hair  lady 
who  had  come  back  with  Aurelie  Lindstrom  from  her 
triumphant  $100,000  prize  beauty  tour  of  the  West 


JINNEE    OF   THE    TAILOR-MADE      239 

wearing  the  ill-gotten  McFetridge  diamonds,  was 
asleep  in  the  park! 

No  other  woman  had  ever  slept  in  Rome's  park. 
Nothing  could  have  so  jabbed  convention,  nothing  so 
focused  comment  on  Aurelie  Lindstrom.  All  about  the 
Square,  the  stores,  the  billiard  parlor,  at  Playter's 
corner,  at  the  bank  and  around  the  hitching-rails  the 
buzz  ran.  Harlan  heard  talk  of  it  from  his  window. 
Clerks  stopped  and  told  others ;  farmers  stared.  Some 
one  asked  where  was  old  Marshal  Bee;  and  others 
said  the  sheriff's  office  had  jurisdiction  as  the  park  was 
county  property. 

Wiley  Curran,  talking  to  Aurelie  in  his  shop,  saw 
Miss  Norman  drowsily  lurch  back  under  all  the  mid 
summer  glory  and  sleep  as  a  child  sleeps. 

"Poor  Ad !"  murmured  Aurelie,  "she's  been  tired 
for  ten  years  and  never  had  such  peace  and  air  as  this. 
It's  just  fine  to  see  her!" 

And  Aunt  Abby,  who  had  hurried  down,  wiping  her 
floury  hands  to  settle  back  her  "specs"  and  kiss  the 
wanderer,  looked  over  in  the  park  and  said:  "Poor 
dear — let  her  sleep  till  supper-time  if  she  will.  What 
else  is  the  park  good  for  except  tired  people,  and  may 
be  heart-sick,  too." 

But  meantime  Rome  rocked  with  scandal.  Old 
Marshal  Bee  was  routed  from  his  midday  meal  and 
told  to  do  something,  and  he  ambled  into  the  sheriff's 
office  and  said  they  ought  to  do  something.  Old  Dep 
uty  Amos  pulled  his  whiskers  and  protested.  The 
undertaker  came  in  and  denounced  both  of  them,  and 
the  district  attorney  was  appealed  to,  but  he  shook  his 


240  THE    MIDLANDERS 

head.  Never  would  he  wake  anybody  up  just  before 
the  primaries ! 

And  while  the  agitation  grew  and  seethed  in  the 
court-house  and  about  the  Square,  Miss  Norman  slept. 
Slept  a  whole,  long  beautiful  hour,  and  then  awoke 
slowly,  luxuriantly,  to  stare  up  at  the  splendor  of  the 
sky  through  the  maples.  Afar  off  came  a  drowsy  cow 
bell  and  the  singing  of  a  reaper.  She  hated  to  come 
back  to  her  banal  world  of  grease  paint  and  the  hunt 
ing  of  jobs.  Just  peace — that  was  what  she  longed  for. 
But  she  rubbed  her  eyes  and  went  over  to  the  Parsons 
House  as  Aurelie  had  directed  her. 

Aurelie  and  Mr.  Curran  were  laughing  together  over 
old  times ;  and  Uncle  Michigan,  who  had  been  sum 
moned  by  a  small  boy,  was  sitting  spellbound  listening 
to  Aurelie's  adventures,  her  hand  tucked  under  his  own 
black  paw,  when  Miss  Norman  came  in. 

"Well,"  she  drawled  with  her  good  humor,  "the 
old  dame  put  me  out  proper  1" 

"Old  dame?    Miss  Amelia?" 

"I  suppose  so.  Never  had  such  a  frost.  The  old 
catamaran — sing !" 

"What's  the  matter?"  cried  Aurelie. 

"She  said,"  drawled  Miss  Norman  calmly,  "that  no 
friend  of  that  Lindstrom  girl  could  get  a  room  in  her 
house.  Said  it  had  been  a  respectable  house  since 
1856.  We  could  take  our  diamonds  and  beat  it  to 
Earlville.  Lord,  Aurelie,  our  diamonds  !" 

Aurelie  colored  to  her  ear  tips.  Her  eyes  began  to 
blaze.  And  to  damp  the  kindling  fires,  Wiley  called  up 
Amelia  Parsons  on  the  telephone.  She  declined  to  ex- 


JINNEE    OF    THE    TAILOR-MADE      241 

plain.  She  wouldn't  have  "them  actresses",  and  that 
ended  it. 

Aurelie  caught  his  lamely-repeated  phrase.  "Them 
actresses !" 

"I  wish  some  of  the  managers  could  hear  that,"  went 
on  Miss  Norman.  "They've  told  me,  now  and  then,  I 
wasn't  actress  enough  to  hurt." 

But  Aurelie  could  see  no  humor  in  it.  "Oh,  this 
town!  It  always  did  hate  me!"  And  she  burst  out 
of  the  News  office  to  stare  at  the  court-house.  "That's 
just  where  they  sent  Papa  Lindstrom  to  jail  and  made 
him  crazy !  And  it's  just  where  they  laughed  when  I 
went  to  school  wearing  daisies  in  my  hair.  And  no 
shoes!" 

"Now,  dear,"  protested  Aunt  Abby,  "it's  just  proud 
of  you !" 

"I  won't  stay  here  a  night!"  She  came  back  and 
threw  her  arms  about  Uncle  Mich's  grizzled  head. 
"We'll  go  over  to  Earlville  and  stay  at  the  Metropole 
— and  take  you,  Uncle  Mich,  and  Mr.  Curran — and 
everybody  that's  good  to  me."  She  was  on  the  verge 
of  tears.  "And  the  rest — I  hate  'em!  They  say  I'm 
different— and  I'm  glad  I'm  different!  I  hate  'em!" 

Uncle  Michigan  had  sat  rubbing  the  brass  band  of 
his  peg-leg.  This  radiant  Aurelie,  his  old  rabbit-hunt 
ing  Aurelie  ?  The  same  child- Aurelie  who  used  to  dive 
among  the  water-hyacinths  in  futile  chasing  of  the 
baby  sharks  in  the  south  Louisiana  bayous?  Done 
come  to  occupy  the  land !  But  now  he  was  more  be 
wildered.  "Reckon  I'd  take  you  out  home,  Aurelie,  but 
John  he's  got  so  filled  with  the  Holiness  spirit.  The 


242  THE    MIDLANDERS 

Holiness  Brethren  done  turned  John  hard  against  the 
show  business." 

"We  won't  stay  another  minute!"  cried  Aurelie. 
"I'll  call  up  the  Metropole  and  have  'em  send  their 
taxicab !" 

Wiley  fell  in  his  chair.  Aunt  Abby  stared.  That 
would  be  the  last  word.  Aurelie  skipping  out  of  town 
in  a  taxi.  For  there  was  a  taxi.  Earlville  had  a  taxi. 
Where  there  is  an  Elks'  Club  in  brownstone  and  a 
hotel — tapestried  dogs  in  four  colors — there  must  be 
a  taxi.  But  never  had  this  blatant  taxi  desecrated  the 
streets  of  Rome. 

"Aurelie !"  gasped  Mr.  Curran.  "Take  the  street 
car  from  the  Junction.  But  the  taxi — gee  whiz!" 

Too  late.  She  flew  to  the  telephone  and  ordered  the 
taxi. 

Miss  Norman  sat  back  and  settled  her  skirt  under 
her  belt.  "Well,  she  drawled,  "I  had  a  nap,  anyhow, 
on  the  old  town.  And,  seeing  that  we've  put  it  on  the 
blink,  I  might  just  as  well  light  a  pill."  She  took  a  ciga 
rette  out  of  her  bag.  "Mr.  Curran,  this  country  air 
gives  me  a  pleasure." 

She  lighted  it.  Aunt  Abby  stared.  "I'm  a  church- 
member  in  good  standin' !"  she  cried,  and  fled  through 
the  office  and  back  up  to  her  peach  preserves. 

Mr.  Curran  looked  wildly  across  the  Square.  People 
were  standing  about  watching  the  Neivs  office.  Old 
Marshal  Bee  was  sticking  his  head  out  of  the  under 
taker's,  and  even  the  prisoners  in  the  basement  jail 
of  the  court-house  were  gazing  across  the  lawns.  Mr. 
Curran  retreated  farther  into  his  shop.  Great  heavens, 
here  he  was  entertaining  a  blonde-haired  actress,  and 


JINNEE    OF   THE   TAILOR-MADE      243 

she  smoking  a  cigarette  in  broad  daylight  in  front  of 
the  News,  too !  And  he  running  for  congress ! 

Then  up  the  street  that  taxi  came  whoofing,  and 
stopped  before  the  News.  All  the  consternation  before 
was  as  nothing.  Business  ceased  all  about  the  Square. 
The  grocers'  clerks  stood  with  jaws  hanging  and  po 
tato  measures  in  their  hands.  The  cook  came  out  of 
the  Gem  Restaurant — Chicago  Home  Cooking — and 
lawyers  and  dentists  put  their  heads  out  of  the  old 
stone-slabbed  windows;  and  Vawter,  the  artist,  came 
down  with  his  camera  to  get  a  post-card  picture.  And 
all  the  time  the  county  deputy,  Amos,  and  old  Marshal 
Bee  doddered  at  each  other  across  the  Square  as  to 
whose  jurisdiction  should  extend  to  Miss  Norman's 
noonday  nap.  But  when  the  taxi  stopped  they  stopped 
also. 

"If  that-air  machine,"  shouted  Deputy  Amos,  "runs 
more'n  four  mile  an  hour  in  this  town,  it  air  your 
bounden  duty  as  a  city  officer  to  stop  'em !" 

"I'll  stop  'em,"  cackled  Marshal  Bee,  "if  I  can  catch 
'em !" 

Mr.  Curran  was  in  despair.  "Aurelie,  don't  go.  It 
makes  it  worse  than  ever.  Why,  people  aren't  against 
you!  Only  some  old  tabbies — lots  of  folks  are  proud 
of  you — they  ask  me  about  you !" 

Aurelie  was  pushing  Uncle  Michigan  into  the  taxi. 
Miss  Norman  followed  languidly.  They  had  trouble 
with  Uncle  Michigan's  wooden  leg  and  the  chauffeur 
assisted.  "Uncle  Mich,"  whispered  Aurelie,  "you're 
just  going  to  surprise  'em.  They  never  thought  of 
you  and  your  shiny  old  leg  in  an  automobile !" 

"Done   goin'   to   see   the   world!"   chuckled   Uncle 


244  THE    MIDLANDERS 

Mich;  and  Miss  Norman  patted  his  hand.    "Ain't  he 
the  game  old  sport — leg  and  all !" 

"Oh,  Aurelie !"  gasped  Mr.  Curran  again.  "Tell  Miss 
— er — what's-her-name — to  put  out  that  cigarette ;  I'm 
running  for  congress !" 

"Well,  run  along!  We  ain't  going  to  hurt  con 
gress  !"  She  sat  up  very  straight,  and  then  gave  the 
taxi  man  a  dollar.  "You  just  tear  around  the  Square 
as  fast  as  you  can  three  times  and  then  out  High 
Street.  And  if  you  get  arrested  we'll  pay  your  fine. 
And  run  over  everybody  you  can  except  dogs  and 
babies  and  chickens !" 

Young  Mr.  Van  Hart,  from  his  law  office  windows, 
heard  every  word.  He  saw  his  mother  driving  up  High 
Street  slowly  and  dignifiedly  as  the  Van  Hart  trap  was 
wont  to  go.  And  he  saw  the  red  taxi  start,  Aurelie  sit 
ting  up  with  her  odd  foreign  air.  And  Miss  Norman 
with  that  cigarette,  while  all  the  populace  of  Rome, 
Iowa,  marveled.  He  stood  clutching  the  window  shade 
and  groaned.  "Aurelie !  And  I  loved  you,  Aurelie !" 

He  heard  the  taxi  go  whoofmg  by.  Then  he  heard  Old 
Dutch  snort  as  his  mother's  trap  turned  out  of  High 
Street.  He  looked  out  and  then  dashed  down-stairs. 
When  he  reached  the  corner  the  taxi  was  making  its 
second  lap,  and  his  mother  was  speaking  calmly  to 
the  backing  horse.  Harlan  ran  to  seize  Old  Dutch's 
bit.  And  then  the  taxi  went  past  them  hurling  the 
corner  dust  clear  into  Dickinson's  vegetable  boxes. 
People  simply  waited.  Even  the  dogs  gaped  mutely. 
Neither  to  right  nor  left  did  Aurelie  glance.  Old  boot 
legger  Mich  sat  still  between  her  and  this  cheerful 
woman  with  the  cigarette.  Then  the  taxi,  with  a  final 


JINNEE    OF   THE   TAILOR-MADE      245 

derisive  snarl,  made  its  last  circuit  of  the  Square  and 
shot  out  High  Street.  Old  Dutch  flew  up  on  his  hind 
legs,  while  a  tall,  dignified  young  man  stood  pulling 
him  down  in  the  whirl  of  dust  and  leaves  kicked  by  the 
taxi  all  over  his  immaculate  summer  suit. 

Mrs.  Van  Hart  looked  calmly  after  the  taxi.  "Har- 
lan,  wasn't  that  Aurelie  Lindstrom?" 

"It  was,  mother,"  he  answered  quietly. 

Across  the  Square,  old  Deputy  Amos  was  hurrying. 
"Hey,  Marshal — why  don't  you  stop  'em?" 

"I  would,"  retorted  Marshal  Bee,  "if  I  could  catch 
'em !" 

In  the  taxi  Miss  Norman  patted  Uncle  Michigan's 
hand.  "I  think,"  she  murmured,  "the  old  town  will 
remember  Aurelie!" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  BACKWARD  TRAIL 

HARLAN  did  not  know  what  haunting  of  loneli 
ness  took  him  the  next  evening  to  the  hills.  It 
was  the  first  day  of  September,  and  already  a  veil  of 
haze  lay  in  the  wooded  little  valleys,  and  the  far  slopes 
had  the  first  bronze  of  the  ripening  corn.  Yet  it  was 
summer,  with  a  harvest  moon  drawing  up  across  the 
river,  round  and  full  and  golden. 

He  wandered  down  old  trails  from  Eagle  Point. 
Northward  along  the  bluff  were  glimpses  of  the  distant 
Mississippi  over  the  sycamores  and  willow  sloughs. 
He  crossed  the  last  glade  to  the  ridge  over  which  was 
Tanner's  quarry.  Already  through  the  laurel  and 
maples  and  young  elms  a  patch  of  the  white  sheer  rock 
arose.  And  on  this  point  he  stopped  to  look  down  in  the 
valley.  From  the  quarry  bed  the  road  ran  on  winding 
past  the  fringy  corn  patches  of  the  Pocket  squatters. 
But  all  the  unloveliness  of  their  meager  homes  was 
hidden  in  the  shadow,  and  all  the  beauty  of  the  hill  be 
yond  lay  revealed  by  the  moon.  Harlan  had  not  been  on 
the  back  trail  for  more  than  a  year.  When  he  came  to 
the  old  familiar  rock  jutting  over  the  cliff  he  started 
to  climb  the  last  step  and  then  paused.  Some  one  was 
before  him,  sitting  where  he  had  intended  to  sit,  look- 

246 


THE    BACKWARD    TRAIL  247 

ing  as  he  had  wished  to  look  out  over  the  valley  and 
the  town. 

And  before  he  came  out  of  the  shadow  he  knew  it 
was  Aurelie.  Aurelie,  who  could  not  leave  without  one 
visit  to  the  home  trail.  She  had  not  been  to  Lind- 
strom's  house,  but  to-night  she  had  ridden  over  from 
Earlville,  tied  the  livery  mount  at  the  Sinsinawa  Creek 
bridge,  and  clambered  up  to  where  she  could  look 
either  way,  to  the  village  or  to  her  foster-father's  place 
below  the  quarry.  Harlan  watched  her  long.  She  was 
mute,  dry-eyed,  very  still;  but  when,  at  length,  he 
came  out  and  stood  before  her,  curiously  she  did  not 
start. 

She  moved  slowly  and  looked  up  at  him.  Her  face 
had  all  that  grave  purity  of  outline  that  belied  alike 
her  temper  and  her  humor. 

"It  just  seems,"  she  murmured,  "as  if  I  was  to  find 
you  here." 

He  remembered  now  that  she  said  she  was  coming  to 
the  hills.  "But  I  never  thought  of  it,  Aurelie.  And 
yet-" 

He  stopped  and  she  sat  forward  to  see  his  face. 
"Yet  you  came.  Oh,  the  moonlight  made  me  come, 
Harlan !  I  was  restless  and — unhappy — and  I  remem 
bered  such  beautiful  nights  here.  Oh,  very  wonderful ! 
September — like  this."  She  moved  over  with  a  little 
friendly  gesture.  "Sit  down." 

But  he  stood  with  his  hand  out  to  the  lichened  rock 
above  her. 

She  did  not  seem  to  notice  his  constraint.  "When 
I  was  a  little  ragged  kiddie,  I  used  to  climb  up  here. 
Always  I  loved  it,  Harlan." 


248  THE    MIDLANDERS 

"But  I  tell  you,"  he  answered  quietly,  "you  came 
to-night  because  you  remembered  something  else,  Au- 
relie." 

"Yes,"  she  answered  simply.  "Our  nights.  I 
couldn't  quite  forget  the  last  one.  The  night  you  took 
me  to  your  mother's,  Harlan."  She  laughed  briefly. 
"And  she  tricked  me — and  I  ran  away.  I  saw  so 
clearly.  I  just  woke  up  that  night,  Harlan." 

"She  didn't  trick  you,  Aurelie.    Mother  couldn't — " 

"Oh,  well !"  she  smiled  wisely.  "If  you  could  realize 
how  I've  changed  !  That  night  I  was  breathless  before 
her.  She  appealed  to  me — she  wanted  me  to  let  you 
go — to  help  you,  Harlan.  I  thought  it  was  fine  that 
night — but  I  tell  you  I  paid!  I  did  love  you,  Harlan." 

He  watched  her  face  in  the  moonlight.  "Mother 
did  something,  I  knew.  I  wasn't  sure ;  but  that  wasn't 
what  hurt,  Aurelie.  It  was  afterward — your  going 
on  the  stage — in  that  way.  Everything — hurt." 

She  made  a  blithe  pretense  at  a  grimace  of  mockery. 
"Oh,  well — boy !  It's  all  different  with  you  and  me.  I 
was  a  weak  and  silly  girl  to  hang  on  you  and  love  you, 
and  confuse  you  into  thinking  that  you  loved  me !  And 
that  night  I  saw  all  the  girls  of  your  set  and  the  dan 
cing  and  the  music — it  all  rushed  over  me — the  differ 
ence."  She  smiled  with  a  tender  mystery  she  could 
not  deny — he  was  amazed  to  find  how  immeasurably 
older  she  could  be  in  her  womanhood — "I  knew  you'd 
forget  if  I  made  you.  And  it  seemed  fine  if  I  could 
make  you."  She  smiled  on  bravely.  "And  I'm  glad. 
We  both  ought  to  be  glad.  My !" — she  was  laughing 
now.  "We  were  both  kids,  weren't  we  ?  Now  I  know 
the  world  a  bit — I'm  a  heap  different.  Done  growed 


THE    BACKWARD    TRAIL  249 

up,  Uncle  Mich  says,  and  he's  scared  about  it!  I'm 
going  to  be  a  real  leading  lady  sometime,  and  come 
back  and  play  in  the  tin  opera-house — play  in  a  piece 
that  hasn't  so  much  shooting  in  it — and  you'll  be  fat 
and  prosperous  and  married  and  bring  your  kiddies  to 
see  me.  And  you'll  be  mighty  glad,  Harlan,  you  never 
married  that  Cajun  girl  from  down-river." 

But  he  would  not  smile.  In  the  moonlight  on  the 
hillside,  she  had  the  same  defying  gipsy  charm  as  of 
old;  wilful,  mocking,  humble,  buoyant,  when  she 
wished  it.  All  the  inevitable  vulgarian  stamp  of  her 
upbringing  was  vanished;  and  he  felt  the  old  pathos 
for  her — that  what  was  dear  and  simple  in  her  he 
could  find  and  save  and  make  his  own.  The  rest  would 
not  matter.  He  could  not  fathom  how  the  invincible 
heritage  of  his  family,  was  now  shamed  before  her  gay 
proud  honesty,  the  sense  of  woodland  freedom  from  all 
the  conventions  of  his  sort.  He  wanted  to  be  as  honest 
as  she,  as  fearless  as  she,  but  he  did  not  know  the  way. 

"Aurelie,"  he  muttered,  "be  still.  You  know  I  love 
you." 

She  was  very  still.  The  shadow  of  the  rock  was  not 
more  mute.  Only  her  face  was  turned,  evading  him,  a 
pretense  of  unhearing. 

"I  tell  you  so  again,  Aurelie.  It  costs  a  lot.  I  bucked 
through  school  and  forgot  you — almost.  I  came  back 
here  and  set  my  teeth  together  and  worked.  And  all 
the  things  they  said  about  you — this  town  never  will 
get  over  talking  about  you — all  this  miserable  notoriety 
— it  hurt.  I  said  nothing.  But  I  knew  I  loved  you,  for 
all  the  talk  hurt — hurt!  I  didn't  want  you  to  go  on  in 
this  miserable,  cheap  show  business.  There  was  so 


250  THE   MIDLANDERS 

much  to  do — to  make  of  ourselves — before  we — before 
it  would  be  right  for  us  to  marry." 

It  was  badly  put  to  such  as  Aurelie.  "Oh,  a  girl 
doesn't  want  a  lover  who  thinks  of  what  there  is  to  do, 
or  make  of  her  before  he  marries  her.  That's  what  you 
mean,  of  course!"  She  blurted  on,  checking  her  hot 
tears.  "I  don't  care!  I  came  back  here  yesterday — 
perfectly  happy !  And  the  way  this  awful  town  treated 
me!" 

"Aurelie  ?"  he  said  sternly,  white  with  a  battle  to  be 
the  master ;  forever  this  desire  to  shelter  her  and  teach 
her  mingled  with  his  passion.  "You  do  so  many 
things!  Racing  around  the  Square  yesterday  in  that 
machine.  And  you  ought  not  to  have  kissed  Wiley 
Curran!" 

"Why  not?"  She  looked  up  innocently.  "I  felt 
happy — and  he  was  so  glad  to  see  me." 

He  sighed  with  discouragement.  "And  then  there's 
that  story — Aurelie,  did  Hen  McFetridge  give  you  any 
diamonds  ?" 

"Yes.  A  tiny  one — "  She  held  out  her  hand  with 
naive  pride.  "And  he  said  he'd  have  given  me  lots 
more  if  he'd  sold  more  oil  stock." 

Harlan  forced  back  a  smile.  Harvard  and  two  hun 
dred  years  of  his  father's  culture  had  no  answer  to 
this.  "I  ought  to  be  angry,"  he  muttered. 

She  was  regarding  him  with  her  old  puzzled  air  of 
respect.  "I  reckon,"  she  went  on,  "that  friends  can 
give  one  presents  if  they  want  to !"  She  sighed  pen 
sively.  "You're  funny  people — you  and  your  mother 
and  everybody.  I  never  can  understand.  And  so  I  want 
to  go  away  and  be  a  great  actress,  and  sometime  come 


THE    BACKWARD    TRAIL  251 

back  Here  again  with  lots  of  clothes  and  a  bulldog  on 
a  chain — " 

"Aurelie !" 

"A  bulldog  and  a  press-agent — " 

"Oh,  Aurelie  1  I'd  rather  have  you  back  again — the 
little  wild-woods  girl — Uncle  Mich's  girl — and  not  a 
prize  beauty  and  an  actress — not  a  bit !" 

He  had  reached  to  take  her  hands,  and  with  them 
drew  himself  down  beside  her.  She  laughed  blithely : 
"Harlan,  I'm  a  heap  prettier  than  I  used  to  be,  ain't  I  ?" 

"Not 'ain't  F,  Aurelie!" 

"Well,  then — something  else!  Prettier,  and  with 
clothes — you  ought  to  love  me  a  heap  more,  Harlan,  if 
I  amount  to  something." 

"But  I  don't  want  you  to  amount  to  anything!"  His 
arm  slipped  down  about  her  slenderness,  he  tried  to 
shake  her  angrily;  and  then,  with  a  great  passionate 
pity,  he  swept  her  up  in  his  arms  in  the  old  way — her 
breath  upon  his  lips,  the  quiver  of  her  warm  flesh 
against  his  own.  He  was  no  more  the  boy;  a  new 
man's  madness  to  possess  her  beat  on  him.  It  over 
bore  his  control,  his  heritage.  It  was  not  so  that  his 
father  had  loved — loved  with  this  young  lust  of  tri 
umph,  this  barbaric  holding  of  poignant  life  and  the 
beauty  that  was  in  her.  A  flame,  a  plaything — what 
ever  it  was  he  held  Aurelie,  it  was  sweet  to  know  she 
was  lying  in  his  arms,  still  and  content.  "If  you 
knew  how  I  cared!  I  haven't  any  law  or  morals  with 
you — it's  just  you — and  I  want  you  to  stay.  You  shall 
stay,  Aurelie — by  God,  I  shan't  have  you  go  away  to 
be  cheapened  and  ground  up  in  the  cities  with  all  that 
life  you'll  lead!  No— no!" 


252  THE    MIDLANDERS 

She  looked  up  from  his  kisses.  "If  I  stay,  you'll 
marry  me  ?" 

"Yes,  dear — a  thousand  times !" 

"That's  like  you  and  old  times,  Harlan !  But  to  live 
here  in  Rome — oh,  they  wouldn't  have  us !" 

"I'll  make  them  have  us !"  He  cried  it  fiercely  to  the 
town  below  them  in  the  dusky  light. 

"Mr.  Curran  said  you  could  be  district  attorney  next 
year.  And  that  you  were  getting  on  fine.  Oh,  you'll 
have  to  give  that  all  up,  Harlan !" 

He  was  still.  Then  he  muttered :  "But  I  love  you, 
dear !" 

"I  know.  But  your  mother — and  what  they  all  think 
of  me!  I  never  knew  until  yesterday  how  bad  they 
thought !" 

"You'll  stay  and  make  your  place,  dear.  It'll  be  the 
big  brave  way.  Oh,  we  were  right  before !  The  night 
seemed  big  and  generous,  didn't  it,  dear?  And  then 
we  let  it  go.  Oh,  we  were  right — and  all  the  world 
was  wrong!" 

She  drew  his  head  to  her  and  kissed  him,  a  soft 
humbleness  in  her  eyes.  Then  she  sat  up  and  put  his 
arm  gently  aside  and  looked  down  long  at  the  valley. 
Somehow  she  could  not  quite  forget.  A  strange  idea 
that  she  had  exchanged  places  with  Harlan  grew  in 
her.  Their  last  night  in  the  hills  it  had  been  she  who 
was  burning  with  this  wild  passion,  this  splendor  of 
love  that  considered  nothing  in  all  their  lives  but  love. 
And  he  had  been  the  mentor,  his  cool  sane  blood  that 
had  saved  them  and  held  them  pure. 

And  now,  slowly,  with  her  sense  of  the  bigness  of  his 
love,  grew  the  sense  of  his  unrealized  sacrifice.  It 


THE    BACKWARD    TRAIL  253 

seemed  as  if  the  long  unequal  years  while  he  was  fight 
ing  down  the  handicap,  winning  his  place  despite  her 
lacking — she,  who  had  even  no  name  except  what 
Lindstrom  had  given  her,  no  parentage  save  what  a  dis 
reputable  whisky  pedler  chose  to  tell  of  her ;  who  was 
now  the  town's  daughter  of  evil — the  roll  unfolded  to 
her,  and  she  was  curiously  shaken,  groping  amid  haz 
ards,  yet  cool  with  purpose. 

"I  want  you  to  stay,"  he  pleaded,  "just  to  show  these 
people  how  I  love  you,  Aurelie.  Why,  we  can  laugh 
at  it  all  together !" 

She  looked  at  him  strangely  still  for  a  time.  "No. 
We  can't.  Not  always.  Your  father  spent  a  fortune 
on  your  education.  And  all  his  life,  and  your  mother's 
is  centered  on  making  you  a  career.  I  know  it.  Why, 
all  the  county  sort  of  feels  that!  It's  curious  how 
things  come  to  me  afterward.  I  can't  blame  'em  a  bit. 
Somehow,  it's  all  sweet  to  me,  Harlan.  It's  very  fine, 
dear !  Just  as  if  I  was  away  off  and  could  look  at  both 
of  us — and  could  smile  and  say  'No!' '' 

"No?" 

"Maybe  I  don't  care  enough  for  you  any  more !" 

"Aurelie!" 

"We're  not  children  any  more."  She  looked  at  him 
again,  subduing  the  tenderness  of  her  smile.  He 
reached  a  hand  to  touch  her,  and  with  her  Indian 
quickness  she  evaded  him.  He  followed  a  step  on  the 
trail  as  she  retreated.  "I'm  Old  Mich's  girl,  still.  I'm 
not  educated,  and  I've  heaps  of  manners  to  learn, 
and  lots  of  ways  that  hurt  you — and  oh,  how  they'd 
hurt  you  sometime  if  we  were  married!  I  know! 
It's  just  as  your  mother  said." 


254  THE    MIDLANDERS 

"Aurelie !"  he  cried  again  and  followed  her. 

"Don't  you  come !  Harlan,  I'd  have  to  give  all  the 
new  life  up — and  I  wouldn't  give  it  up.  I've  been 
happy — splendidly  happy — working.  I  wouldn't  give 
anything  up — for  you!" 

He  stood  staring  after  her  as  she  slipped  away.  He 
started  again  to  follow,  and  she  laughed  a  warning  in 
the  dusk  of  the  laureled  trail. 

"I  just  been  thinking — and  I  don't  love  you !" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   SENTIMENTALIST 

TWO  weeks  before  the  September  primary  elec 
tion,  Mr.  Curran  noted  a  curious  reserved  respect 
toward  him  from  men  of  the  town  who  had  long  ig 
nored  him  as  a  mere  disturber.  And  Arne  Vance, 
coming  in  from  a  last  tour  of  the  county  on  his  "pigs 
and  politics"  campaign,  grimly  explained  it. 

"The  Honorable  James  Hall  came  home  to  work  over 
his  district,  as  the  old  crowd  desired.  And  he  got  a 
frost,  Wiley !  He  knows  it— they  all  know  it.  They're 
scared.  Tom  Purcell  and  I  have  been  comparing  notes. 
We've  showed  Hall  up  something  fierce  on  his  votes  in 
congress,  and  the  farmers  were  glum  to  the  Honorable 
Jim.  And  he  never  had  a  show  with  the  new  element— 
the  foreigners  in  Earlville's  new  factory  district.  Hall's 
licked!  Thad  Tanner  knows  it.  Judge  Van  Hart 
knows  it !  But"— he  looked  grimly  at  the  candidate— 
"we  want  to  cinch  the  fight.  We  need  some  money 
for  printing  and  stuff.  Got  any  ?" 

Mr.  Curran  smiled.  "Good  lord,  Arne!  I'm  bled 
dry  as  a  bone !  I  tried  to  get  some  more  on  a  mort 
gage  at  the  bank.  Cal  Rice  rubbed  his  hands  and  said, 
'Wait  till  after  election'.  I  don't  know  whether  he's 
trying  to  scare  me  with  a  threat  of  foreclosure  on  the 

255 


256  THE    MIDLANDERS 

News,  or  wants  to  conciliate  me  in  case  I'm  elected." 
He  glanced  at  Janet  ruefully.  "But  money?  Our 
crowd  has  no  money.  Money  be  damned!  I'm  sim 
ply  going  on  telling  men  that  I'm  Wiley  Curran  and  I 
want  them  to  vote  for  me — and  why  I" 

The  farmer-student  went  away  dissatisfied.  The 
candidate  was  in  Miss  Vance's  office.  He  had  been 
there  an  hour  talking  lightly  of  affairs  but  conscious  of 
some  rift  in  the  old  intimacy.  Janet  had  been  reserved, 
impersonal,  businesslike.  She  looked  thoughtfully  at 
him  now. 

"Wiley,  you  must  have  money.  It's  the  crisis  of 
your  campaign.  Arne's  right.  You're  winning  splen 
didly.  The  state  press  is  noticing  your  fight  down 
here.  I  should  almost  say  the  country  is,  for  Hall  is  a 
national  figure.  It's  splendid  !" 

It  was  the  first  touch  of  her  old  enthusiasm  for  his 
success.  For  his  success  was  in  the  air.  There  was 
a  sense  of  change,  an  undercurrent  of  panic  on  one 
side,  of  vivifying  unity  on  the  other.  Men  were  talk 
ing  of  new  issues,  new  figures — the  control  of  a  com 
monwealth  was  being  wrested  from  accustomed  hands, 
and  the  obscure  group  of  malcontents  in  Winnetka 
county  were  acute  with  this  feeling  of  being  on  the 
crest  of  a  wave.  The  radical  papers  had  taken  up  Arne 
Vance's  phrase  of  a  "pigs  and  politics"  campaign 
among  the  farmers ;  it  had  undoubtedly  caught  the  pop 
ular  humor. 

Curran  nodded  buoyantly.  His  constraint  vanished 
with  Janet's.  Yet  his  intuition  told  him  of  a  change 
in  her.  She  sat  forward  now  and  spoke  as  one  turn 
ing  to  a  definite  point  of  business.  "Wiley,  you  need 


THE    SENTIMENTALIST  257 

money.     And  I  have  it  idle  in  the  bank.     I  want  you 
to  use  it." 

He  stared  at  her.  A  flush  came  to  his  face.  "Janet?" 

"You  can  give  me  your  note." 

"I  could  write  a  bushel  of  them — but  who'd  take 
them?" 

"I  will— for  five  hundred  dollars." 

"It  wouldn't  be  worth  a  cent  at  the  bank !" 

"Doubtless  not.  But  to  me — "  She  looked  away 
seriously.  Then,  with  hot  impulse  breaking  through, 
"Oh,  Wiley,  I  want  you  to  win — win!"  She  swept  up 
his  hand  from  the  table.  "Your  big  chance,  and  I  want 
to  help !" 

He  was  silent.  Then  muttered :  "Janet,  I  can't  take 
your  money!  I — I'm  not  worth  it,  girl.  God  bless 
you — I'd  not  feel  right.  I — our  friendship  so  beauti 
ful — so  big  a  thing — "  he  would  not  finish.  A  damn 
ing  sense  of  recreance  was  on  him.  She  loved  him, 
and  he  had  never  been  able  to  make  such  a  disaster  of 
himself  that  she  would  not  love  him.  That  was  the 
wonderful  thing  about  women!  And  Janet,  with  her 
great  wide  horizons,  to  love  him !  Her  steady,  all-for 
giving  faith  in  him ;  Janet  the  confidant  of  men  like 
Governor  Delroy,  the  leaders  of  new  ideals.  Janet, 
whose  work  was  ever  calling  her  to  finer  achievements. 
She  had  refused  advancement,  she  had  waited — for 
him !  No,  he  would  say  no  more.  A  man  had  best 
stumble  on  in  his  own  fashion. 

"I'm  sorry."  She  looked  away  impersonally.  "I 
only  meant  it  for  the  common  good, — the  new  democ 
racy  we're  fighting  for.  Just  that — you  are  one  of 
the  leaders  now — one  of  the  coming  men — I'd  hoped." 


258  THE    MIDLANDERS 

Her  voice  had  died  low.  Then  she  went  on  in  her  busi 
ness  tone.  "Go  see  Purcell  to-day,  will  you,  Wiley  ?" 

Within  the  hour  she  called  up  the  Honorable  T.  P. 
Purcell,  Mr.  Curran's  political  manager,  and  told  him 
her  check  for  five  hundred  dollars  was  to  his  credit  in 
an  Earlville  bank.  The  candidate  was  not  to  be  apprised 
at  present.  Young  Mr.  Purcell  was  too  pleased  to  dis 
sent  ;  he  leaned  much  on  Miss  Vance. 

Mr.  Curran  walked  to  the  Junction  and  took  the  in- 
terurban  to  Earlville  that  afternoon  with  the  firmest  in 
tention  to  see  his  political  manager  at  once.  But  he 
went  into  the  Hotel  Metropole  with  a  director  of  the 
stone  and  contracting  company  which  had  been  so  dis 
gruntled  over  the  Tanner  company's  monopoly  of 
county  work  and  was,  therefore,  for  reform  and  revolu 
tion.  And  after  this  conference  he  suddenly  remem 
bered  Aurelie.  He  had  been  assuring  himself  that  he 
didn't  know  she  was  under  the  same  roof,  but  this  was 
futile. 

"I  suppose  she's  leaving  to-night,"  he  mused,  "and  I 
ought  to  call  up — why,  of  course  I  had !  To  let  the  lit 
tle  girl  go  away  in  this  fashion  would  be  a  shame. 
Besides" — he  reflected  upon  other  reasons — "well,  I 
must  see  after  Aurelie."  So,  feeling  rather  brotherly- 
fatherly,  and  altogether  equal  to  the  matter,  he  in 
quired.  And  the  burst  of  joy  over  the  room  telephone 
made  him  queerly  giddy.  See  him?  Why,  come  right 
up ! 

Miss  Lindstrom  was  packing  and  entertaining  Mor 
ris  Feldman,  of  the  Majestic  Theater,  who  was  sitting 
on  her  trunk,  impressive,  prophetic  and  prepared  to  as 
sume  the  glory  of  her  burst  on  the  world. 


"Ain't    I    as   good    looking   as    I    used   to   be? 


THE    SENTIMENTALIST  259 

"I'll  give  you  a  letter,  Miss  Lindstrom,  to  Cohan  & 
Snitz,  who  put  over  all  them  big  music  shows  in  New 
York.  Believe  me" — Mr.  Feldman  laid  a  fat  dia 
monded  hand  over  his  fat  chest — "you  got  to  show 
Cohan  &  Snitz,  Miss  Lindstrom.  This  here  Chicago 
beauty  bunk,  that  don't  go  in  New  York,  Miss  Lind 
strom." 

"Ain't  I  just  as  good-looking  as  I  used  to  be,  Mr. 
Feldman?" 

"Forty  ways  for  Sunday,  Miss  Lindstrom.  You  look 
the  part  now,  with  them  clothes — and  I'm  glad  you 
took  my  advice  and  put  your  salary  in  clothes.  It's  all 
the  business,  Miss  Lindstrom.  It  don't  go  much  with 
Snitz,  but  Cohan  he  falls  for  that.  Cohan  he  knows 
the  goods  when  he  sees  'em.  When  it  comes  to  girls 
he  likes  the  big  rangy  lookers  that  he  can  hang  lots  of 
stuff  on  for  his  finales,  but  you'll  do,  if  you  are  little. 
There's  something  about  you" — Morris  rolled  his  eyes 
amiably — "well,  I  can  put  you  right  with  Cohan,  be 
lieve  me,  Miss  Lindstrom.  There  ain't  any  one  except 
Max  Levitan  up  in  Chicago  that  can  put  a  girl  into 
New  York,  like  me,  Miss  Lindstrom." 

"That's  good,"  commented  Miss  Lindstrom,  "but 
will  you  get  off  my  trunk  ? — and  hold  that  lid  back,  too, 
while  I  stuff  this  stuff  in." 

Mr.  Feldman  did  so.  "Where  you  made  your  mis 
take,  Miss  Lindstrom,  was  hooking  up  with  these  two 
big  blobs  from  Tulare,  California.  And  that  newspa 
perman's  show,  believe  me,  was  one  mistake.  It  took 
the  edge  off  this  here  beauty  bunk.  If  I'd  been  hand 
ling  you,  Miss  Lindstrom,  they'd  been  naming  cigar 
ettes  after  you  by  now." 


260  THE    MIDLANDERS 

"You're  awful  good,  Mr.  Feldman.  And  I'll  be 
mighty  glad  to  get  that  letter.  Me  and  Miss  Norman 
— I  mean  Miss  Norman  and  7 — will  be  pleased."  She 
was  rolling  up  five  pairs  of  stockings  and  stuffing  them 
into  the  crown  of  a  hat.  "You  see,  Mr.  Feldman,  I'm 
trying  to  improve  my  grammar,  but  believe  me,  it's 
some  effort.  I'd  rather  hunt  rabbits — or  jobs.  I  guess 
my  grammar'd  hit  'em  pretty  hard  in  New  York." 

"My  letter  11  put  you  right.  There  ain't  many  peo 
ple  wise  to  this  here  theatrical  business,  Miss  Lind- 
strom.  In  New  York  there's  Cohan  &  Snitz  and  Gus 
Friedlander,  and  in  Chicago  there's  Max  Levitan,  and 
then  here's  me  that  runs  this  picture  house  for  Hirsch 
&;  Meyerstein.  But  it's  too  much  for  most  of  'em, 
Miss  Lindstrom.  There's  a  great  future  for  the  Amer 
ican  drama  and  the  American  actress,  Miss  Lindstrom. 
'Get  the  money — Get  the  money — Get  the  money — ' 
that's  the  way  I  heard  Cohan  put  it  up  to  Snitz  when 
I  come  out  ahead  on  The  Girl  and  the  Duke  for  'em 
one  time.  Believe  me,  you  can  make  good,  Miss  Lind 
strom." 

"Climb  on  that  trunk  with  both  feet,"  commanded 
Miss  Lindstrom ;  and  the  protagonist  of  the  American 
drama  did  so.  "Now  run  along — I  want  to  change  my 
skirt — "  pursued  Miss  Lindstrom.  "And,  oh — there's 
Mr.  Curran!" 

She  dashed  to  him  as  Mr.  Feldman  ambled  out.  She 
seized  Mr.  Curran's  hands.  "Do  you  know,  somebody 
said  I  shouldn't  have  kissed  you  the  other  day  ?" 

"I  know,"  faltered  Mr.  Curran. 

"Why  not?" 

"Well — er — I'm  running  for  congress." 


THE    SENTIMENTALIST  261 

"Well,  I  wasn't  a-going  to  kiss  congress !  But  you 
know  I  think  a  heap  of  you.  I  never  can  repay  all  you 
did  for  me,  Mr.  Curran.  Why,  I  remember  that  I  be 
gan  to  use  better  grammar  after  that  time  I  ran  off 
through  the  woods  and  you  comforted  me.  Why,  you 
made  me  cry — and  just  there  I  made  up  my  mind  to  be 
somebody!  Do  you  remember,  Mr.  Curran?" 

Poor  old  Wiley!  He  had  not  forgotten  a  moon 
beam  on  the  trees !  And  never  would  !  That  was  his 
weakness.  Congress  would  not  stick  in  his  mind  over 
night,  try  as  he  would. 

"Well,"  Aurelie  went  on,  shaking  out  things  and  lay 
ing  them  in  her  suit  case,  "when  I  come  back  with  a 
bulldog — a  great  actress — I'll  step  out  and  tell  all  the 
people — right  in  front  of  that  fuzzy  old  curtain  at  the 
tin  opera-house — that  Mr.  Curran  of  the  News,  he  did 
it!" 

"Then  Aurelie,"  he  mourned,  "I  couldn't  be  elected 
pound-master!  They're  terribly  afraid  of  actresses 
over  in  Rome." 

"They  never  had  any!  But  I  don't  suppose  they'll 
ever  forget  that  I  was  a  shanty-boat  girl  and  came  up 
the  river  with  an  old  soldier  who  did  the  whisky  loup 
from  Natchez  to  Dubuque ;  and  ran  wild  in  the  woods 
and  hadn't  any  mother  to  speak  of" — she  jerked  things 
about  in  the  case — "and  any  name  except  one  that  an 
Indian  woman  gave  me,  and  what  Papa  Lindstrom 
had.  I'm  just  not  anybody — "  she  jerked  the  case 
again  and  grimaced.  "Now,  I  cut  my  ringer!" 

"It's  what  people  do  who  get  mad  and  slam  things." 

"If  I  had  anybody,  they'd  kiss  my  fingers  when  I  cut 
'em !" 


262  THE    MIDLANDERS 

Mr.  Curran  took  that  finger.  He  looked  at  it  and 
kissed  it  gently.  Then  he  looked  up  to  see  the  tears 
and  laughter  in  her  eyes. 

"I'm  glad  you're  foolish!"  she  cried,  and  he  whis 
pered  : 

"So  am  I !" 

"I  guess  we're  a  good  deal  like  each  other." 

"I'm  afraid  so!  You're  a  problem,  Aurelie.  No 
wonder  Harlan  couldn't  make  anything  lout  of  you. 
He's  all  broken  up,  poor  chap !" 

"Why  can't  you  be  sorry  for  me  a  little  bit  ?  I  sent 
Harlan  away,  Mr.  Curran !  I  wasn't  going  to  hurt  his 
career.  I'm  going  to  be  somebody  myself.  Be  a  new 
woman  like  Miss  Vance,  and  write  pieces  for  the  pa 
pers  ;  and  not  bother  about  a  home  and  some  babies  like 
I  want!" 

"Aurelie,  I  can't  understand  you." 

She  sat  on  the  trunk  and  sighed.  "That's  on  top. 
Down  in  my  heart  I  want  to  run  away  down-river  with 
Uncle  Mich  and  to  the  Cajun  country  where  we  went 
to  the  island  balls  and  I  wore  hyacinths  in  my  hair — I 
do,  Mr.  Curran !" 

"Lord  bless  you !"  cried  Mr.  Curran ;  "you  love  Har 
lan!" 

"No,  I  don't.  But  I  want  to  be  loved  by  somebody 
just  like  I  am — a  sort  of  wandery  person  who'd  be 
willing  to  go  off  on  adventures.  And  not  have  any 
people  or  careers.  Just  be  brave  and  foolish,  like  you." 

Mr.  Curran  contemplated  her  quite  calmly.  "Aure 
lie,"  he  demanded,  "are  you  going  ever  to  marry 
Harlan?" 

"Never,  never — never!     It  was  only  because  I  was 


THE    SENTIMENTALIST  263 

lonely,  and  a  sentimentalist — is  that  it  ?  It  was  such  a 
great  thing  that  summer.  But  now?  Why  I  have 
theater  managers  come  and  help  me  roll  stockings  and 
stick  'em  in  my  trunk  !  Mr.  Feldman  just  did !" 

"Aurelie,"  went  on  Mr.  Curran  steadily  and  sternly, 
"about  Harlan — you're  making  a  great  mistake  if  you 
throw  him  off !" 

She  regarded  him  demurely  through  half-closed 
limpid  eyes. 

"Some  people  I  know  wouldn't  be  sorry  if  I  did !" 

Aurelie  was  plainly  playing  with  poor  Mr.  Curran. 
He  felt  it  and  was  enraged.  "If  you  weren't  so  grown 
up,  I'd  spank  you  !  You — a  young  lady !" 

"I'm  not.  Ask  Harlan's  mother  or  some  of  the 
Shakespeare  Club.  I'm  vulgar  and  nobody — just  Old 
Michigan's  girl !" 

Mr.  Curran  sat  despairingly  down.  Never  to  him 
had  she  been  so  beautifully  buoyant,  so  arch  with  joy, 
so  infinite  with  possibilities,  so  gay  with  blithe  courage. 
Love  Harlan?  Surely  not!  This  was  life  she  was 
loving — smiles  and  tears  and  triumphs — she  was  en 
raptured  with  it  all,  and  she  would  love  no  one  now! 
She  was  finding  herself ;  she  was  unfolding  splendidly, 
dangerously,  out  of  the  hard  and  meager  years  she  had 
served. 

"John  says  the  reason  he  won't  let  the  family  have 
your  presents  is  because  you're  a  contrivance  of  the 
devil !" 

"But  you  like  the  devil's  contrivances,  don't  you,  Mr. 
Curran  ?" 

"I  expect  I  do,  Aurelie." 

"And  you  don't  care  a  hang  what  congress  thinks !" 


264  THE    M1DLANDERS 

"I'm  afraid  not,  Aurelie." 

She  came  with  laughter  to  him — and  kissed  him. 
"Nobody  can  see  us !  What's  the  use  of  hating  any 
body  ?  Or  being  sorry  ?  Or  pining  because  they  don't 
love  you?  Oh,  let's  just  go  on  and  be  fine  with  every 
one !  I'm  trying  to  be  religious.  I  say  prayers  when 
I  ain't  too  sleepy.  And  I'm  collecting  Madonna  heads, 
and  I  give  dimes  to  all  the  beggars.  Ada  says  it's  silly 
to  cross  the  street  to  give  dimes  to  people,  but  I  tell  her 
it's  religious!" 

"Somehow,"  he  muttered,  "I  have  to  forgive  you. 
Do  you  know  you  are  living,  Aurelie,  every  day? 
That's  what  it  means — to  be  gay  and  happy  and  kind, 
and  not  bother  too  much  about  other  things."  He 
took  her  hands :  "Dear  girl,  life  isn't  so  much  winning 
anything  as  always  trying.  It's  better  to  travel  than 
to  arrive,  as  some  one  said.  And  oh,  so  many  years  I 
stood  still — until  you  came,  Aurelie!  I  can't  exactly 
explain  it — you  can't  imagine  how  you  helped  me !" 

She  looked  at  him  wide-eyed.     "Helped  you  ?" 

"I  knew  you  wouldn't,"  he  went  on  despairingly. 

She  was  still  for  a  time.  "I  wish  I  could  under 
stand  !  It's  fine  to  know  you.  I  never  used  to  feel  so 
hopeless  after  I  met  you.  You  made  me  happy  be 
cause  you  saw  something  in  me — I  wasn't  just  com 
mon  to  you."  He  looked  up  to  see  some  grateful  shin 
ing  in  her  eyes — "And  the  funny  old  town — we  were 
both  rebels,  weren't  we?  And  just  suppose  you  did 
go  to  congress,  and  I  became  a  real  actress!"  She 
stood  by  the  window  and  stared  out  across  the  busy 
street  to  where,  even  in  Earlville,  one  saw  the  encir 
cling  hills. 


THE    SENTIMENTALIST  265 

"What,  then,  Aurelie?" 

"Why,  we'd  both  remember  how  we  helped  each 
other !" 

He  went  away  with  a  surge  of  his  heart  he  could 
not  still.  "Now  write  me  every  week,"  she  had  said. 
"Nice  friendly  letters — and  not  fatherly-advice  letters 
as  if  you  were  baldheaded,  Mr.  Curran !" 

When  he  had  gone  home,  he  climbed  Eagle  Point 
trail  before  he  could  sleep.  And  he  did  a  curious  thing 
for  a  possible  member  of  congress;  he  kissed  his  fin 
gers  toward  the  eastern  hills  and  whispered : 

"Because  you're  there,  Aurelie— just  because  you're 
there !" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  WAY  OF  HIS  CASTE 

THE  day  after  the  autumn  primaries,  state  politics 
was  conscious  of  a  distinct  shock.  The  "Insur 
gent"  governor  had  triumphed  again,  but  that  was 
expected.  But  what  at  once  was  the  sensation,  attract 
ing  even  national  attention,  was  the  defeat  of  James 
S.  Hall,  chairman  of  the  most  powerful  committee  in 
congress,  confidant  of  the  president — beaten  in  his 
home  constituency,  the  sober  cautious  counties  of  the 
Iowa  Reserve,  by  an  obscure  country  editor! 

The  press  buzzed  with  explanations.  It  marked  the 
temper  of  the  rural  West;  it  meant  the  downfall  of 
traditional  control;  it  was  revolutionary,  demagogic. 
Curran  was  a  socialist,  anarchist,  freethinker,  what  not ! 
Nobody  knew  exactly.  Down  in  his  home  county 
folk  said:  "Well,  we  always  did  sort  of  like  Wiley 
Curran  out  our  way."  In  the  other  precincts  of  the 
district  they  said :  "That  editor  put  up  a  slashing  fight 
— he  come  over  here  and  give  us  facts!" 

Anyhow,  Curran  was  the  regular-party  nominee.  In 
Rome  the  best  people  could  not  have  been  more  indig 
nant  if  one  of  the  billiard-hall  idlers  had  gone  into  the 
First  National  Bank  and  deliberately  kicked  Cal  Rice 
on  the  shins.  It  was  rumored  that  Thaddeus  Tanner, 
county  chairman,  who  had  complacently  promised  his 

266 


THE   WAY   OF   HIS    CASTE  267 

bailiwick  against  the  governor's  league,  was  enraged 
beyond  reason.  He  swore  he  would  not  support  Cur- 
ran;  the  old-line  men  would  vote  for  the  democratic 
candidate,  whoever  that  spindling  county  organization 
put  up,  even  if  it  was  a  yellow  dog. 

The  county  talked  so  much  of  Curran's  spectacular 
victory  that  it  forgot  the  local  ticket.  But  all  the  old- 
line  county  officers  were  nominated — a  Tanner  slate 
clean.  Young  Mr.  Van  Hart,  nominated  without  oppo 
sition,  was  the  only  new  face  to  be  in  the  Rome  court 
house.  Every  one  approved  of  young  Mr.  Van  Hart, 
a  quiet,  reserved,  altogether  likable  chap — he  would 
have  no  opponent  from  the  other  party  camp. 

The  Honorable  Thaddeus  Tanner  met  young  Mr. 
Van  Hart  the  day  after  the  primary. 

"Well,  young  man,  what  the  devil  did  you  mean  by 
allowing  this  crazy  anarchist  to  beat  your  father's  old 
friend  for  congress?" 

"I  had  nothing  to  do  with  Mr.  Hall's  fight,  Mr. 
Tanner." 

The  county  boss  bared  his  yellow  teeth  and  snorted. 
"That's  what  they  all  say.  It's  these  young  fellers  did 
it — fellers  like  them  cow-college  students  whom  Jake 
Vance  and  Purcell  sent  into  every  district  to  work  for 
Curran.  And  these  damned  labor  people  over  in  Earl- 
ville — but  I  notice  they  all  voted  for  you,  Harlan ;  this 
McBride,  hey?— and  his  cattle!" 

"Conditions  are  changing." 

The  boss  eyed  his  nominee  with  a  shrewd  doubt. 
"Young  man,  did  your  father  ever  talk  much  to  you  ?" 

"Father  has  no  use  for  politics.  He'd  hardly  pre 
sume  to  influence  me." 


268  THE   MIDLANDERS 

Thad  snorted  again.  These  Van  Harts  always  did 
irritate  him  with  their  ideas  of  the  proper  thing.  Still 
they  were  useful,  because  their  ideas  of  the  proper 
thing  did  not  allow  them  to  oppose  him  either. 

"Well,  Harlan,  I  hope  you  understand  you  didn't 
even  have  to  make  a  fight.  People  knew  your  dad — and 
they  could  just  figure  on  you.  It's  a  good  thing  you're 
our  man." 

Mr.  Van  Hart  smiled  impersonally.  "I  am  not  your 
man." 

The  county  boss  stared  at  him.  Then  he  bit  the  end 
off  a  cigar.  Then  he  spat  on  the  sidewalk  against  the 
ordinances  made  and  provided.  "Well,  I'm  a  son-of- 
a-gun !"  he  murmured.  "Curious  I  never  stopped  to 
talk  with  you  before !"  Then  he  rubbed  his  gold-headed 
cane  against  Harlan's  sleeve.  "Young  man,  you're 
mighty  young — you'll  get  over  this." 

But  the  Honorable  Thaddeus  Tanner  sidled  into 
Judge  Van  Hart's  chambers,  after  court  that  day,  and 
had  a  talk  of  a  number  of  things,  but  mostly  of  Har 
lan  and  what  a  brilliant  career  he  had  opened  for  Har 
lan.  And  the  next  day  the  Earlville  Mercury- Journal 
— controlled  through  the  stock  which  Cal  Rice's  wife 
owned  in  it — came  out  with  a  fulsome  forecast  of 
young  Mr.  Van  Hart's  career. 

Harlan  met  Arne  Vance  reading  that  column  to  his 
sister  when  he  left  the  office  that  night.  The  farmer- 
student  fixed  his  black  eyes  on  the  nominee.  "Trying 
to  rope  and  brand  you,  eh  ?  See  here — Mike  McBride 
and  I  supposed  we  had  something  to  do  with  your  big 
vote." 


THE   WAY   OF   HIS    CASTE  269 

Harlan  smiled.  "I  think  so,  Arne.  You  surely  put 
Wiley  over!" 

Arne  grimaced,  nodding  his  head  toward  Janet.  "I 
know,"  continued  Harlan.  "Every  one  says  she  did 
it !"  He  put  out  his  hand  to  Janet  in  the  buggy.  She 
appeared  tired  and  distrait.  ''It  has  been  a  strain, 
hasn't  it?  But  Wiley — it'll  be  the  making  of  him, 
Janet." 

She  smiled  a  rare  gratefulness.  "He  can't  fail  of 
election  now.  Only" — she  paused  and  Harlan  lifted 
his  serious  eyes  to  hers,  "I  have  sort  of  a  feeling,  Har 
lan,  he — he'll  do  some  of  the  erratic  audacious  things 
that  have  always  wrecked  him  !" 

"Like  taking  up  the  cause  of  these  Pocket  squatters 
whom  the  county  is  going  to  evict  for  the  new  creek 
dam — Lindstrom — "  muttered  Arne.  "Did  you  see 
the  News?  He's  already  pleading  some  right  of 
theirs." 

Janet  looked  away.  "Well,  I  hope — I  trust — but  it's 
like  Wiley !"  Then  she  smiled  upon  them.  "Well,  I 
am  tired  out.  I'm  going  away." 

"Away?"   Harlan's  tone  lifted.    "To  rest?" 

"To  work.  I  feel  as  if — well,  my  work  was  done 
here,  Harlan.  And  I  have  chances.  To  speak,  to  write 
— well,  for  all  the  fine  things  we  used  to  discuss  in 
the  old  News  office,  you  remember.  The  child-labor 
laws — the  women's  movement — my  old  ambitions, 
Harlan." 

He  nodded  sympathetically.  Then  muttered:  "But 
your  place  here — it's  hard  to  fill,  Janet.  The  school 
system  you've  made  a  model  for  the  state !"  Then  he 


270  THE    MIDLANDERS 

was  silent.  Janet  was  thinking  of  the  long  years' 
fight.  And  the  best  people  had  not  been  with  her  until 
of  late.  She  was  too  practical,  too  busily  efficient,  to 
be  about  the  Shakespeare  Club  teas  at  Mrs.  Van 
Hart's.  Harlan  sharply  differentiated  her  from  the 
tabby  affairs  of  High  Street. 

He  told  his  mother  that  night  that  Janet  Vance 
would  resign  her  next  term  and  go  East.  The  lady  ele 
vated  her  brows  wisely.  The  teas  had  heard  something 
of  the  kind.  "I  suppose  that  will  end  the  affair  be 
tween  her  and  Mr.  Curran." 

"The  affair"  was  a  matter  of  years'  gossip.  Harlan 
said  nothing;  he  had  never,  after  a  man's  fashion, 
bothered  his  head  about  it. 

"I  imagine  it's  true,  then,  that  that  Lindstrom  girl 
has  come  between  them." 

He  looked  attentively  at  her  with  a  trace  of  suspicion 
of  her  subtlety.  Aurelie's  name  had  never  been  men 
tioned  between  them  except  in  the  lady's  amiable  satire 
on  her  "career".  But  that  was  common  to  the  town. 
And  Harlan  had  never  looked  upon  Aurelie's  appeal  to 
the  erratic  romanticism  in  Mr.  Curran  in  that  light.  It 
seemed  preposterous.  Mrs.  Van  Hart  went  on  with 
the  cool  impersonality,  humanized  by  her  sense  of 
amusement,  with  which  she  looked  on  the  affairs  of 
her  neighbors,  even  the  ladies  bemused  in  the  Shake 
speare  afternoons  :  "I  think  it  would  be  quite  fit.  Those 
two — Mr.  Curran  in  congress ! — and  imagine  a  person 
who  goes  along  High  Street  whistling  to  all  the  dogs 
on  his  way  to  the  post-office,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  in 
James  Hall's  seat!" 

Harlan  looked  at  her  in  imperturbable  silence.    The 


THE    WAY   OF   HIS    CASTE  271 

judge  smoked  his  dinner  cigar  with  his  deprecating 
assent. 

"His  nomination,  my  dear,  is  more  than  amusing. 
He — and  all  the  rabble  of  demagogism — take  it  as  an 
indorsement  by  the  people  of  the  rant  that  is  subverting 
our  political  theory.  Our  public  men,  our  financiers, 
persistently  yelped  at  by  Curran's  sheet,  and  our  sober 
constituency  applaud !"  He  looked  mildly  over  his 
glasses.  "My  boy,  I  wish  you  had  stayed  out  of  it  all !" 

"I  do  not !"  The  mother  was  incisive.  "It  is  time  he 
was  in  the  battle.  It  is  the  parting  of  the  ways,  and 
there  is  enough  common  sense  in  the  county  to  make 
Harlan's  career.  It  is  the  day  of  the  young  men." 

And  to  Harlan's  mind  there  came  the  memory  of  a 
phrase.  A  vision — Arne  Vance  and  the  tramp  of  his 
young  men  up  the  hill.  He  became  conscious  of  a 
conflict  within  him  here  in  the  dear  familiar  home. 
Here  were  his  people — the  best  people,  ever  clinging 
to  fixed  forms,  righteous,  worthy,  leisurely  developing 
but  needing  inherent  privilege — this  was  the  good. 
But  here  was  another  good  out  in  the  world ;  a  new, 
hungry,  lustful  good,  eager  to  seize,  to  make  place,  to 
break  down  forms  and  privilege — this  was  the  eternal 
battle.  There  was  no  ground  under  a  man's  feet — he 
was  with  one  or  with  the  other.  And  slowly  it  came  to 
him  that,  in  the  eyes  of  his  parents,  the  eyes  of  his 
world — a  world  rigid  with  caste,  resistant  with  ideals, 
however  much  it  might  assent  to  the  babble  of  democ 
racy — Aurelie  was  the  symbol  of  the  lower  standards. 
It  was  for  him  to  choose,  and  his  love  was  the  crux  of 
it  all,  a  sign-post  at  the  parting  of  the  ways.  He  might 
fight  to  win  her,  try  to  bear  her  from  the  vulgar  and 


272  THE    MIDLANDERS 

common  mode,  but  his  social  sense  told  him  exactly 
what  that  would  mean  to  his  people,  the  "best  people" 
who,  with  a  Nietzschean  ruthlessness,  must  set  their 
faces  against  the  trampling  onward  marching  forces 
that  would  level  or  destroy. 

Even  now  his  mother  touched  on  the  heart  of  it. 
"I  see  that  Mr.  Curran's  News  is  insisting  that  the 
county,  or  the  benefited  landholders,  should  pay  those 
squatters  in  the  Pocket  whose  patches  will  be  flooded 
by  the  new  dam.  He  insists  they  have  a  moral  title 
to  that  no-man's  land." 

"And  acting  on  that  anarchistic  theory,"  went  on  the 
judge  amiably,  "Lindstrom  drove  away  the  workmen 
whom  the  contractor  sent  there.  I  call  that  an  excel 
lent  example — Curran  does  not  hesitate  to  put  the  law 
aside  in  his  cryings  for  what  he  terms  justice.  To  an 
nounce  outlawry." 

"If  Lindstrom  is  an  outlaw,  father,"  Harlan  said 
quietly,  "the  law  made  him  one," 

The  judge  looked  up.  He  reddened.  Nothing  in 
his  kindly  life,  his  righteous  world,  hurt  as  did  the  gos 
sip  that  he  had  crushed  Lindstrom's  manhood.  And 
his  son  spoke  as  one  who  had  brushed  aside  glib 
phrases  and  easy  precedents  and  had  stared  at  the  soul 
of  the  man  crushed.  The  judge  frowned,  to  forbid 
discussion.  "The  law  can  not  take  account  of  a  man's 
degeneration  under  punishment.  But  you,  my  son? 
You  are  going  into  office  as  a  public  prosecutor — 
where  did  you  get  these  ideas?" 

"Thinking.  A  fellow  can't  help  it.  And  the  new 
things,  father — the  spirit  of  inquiry,  fearless,  reason 
ing,  weighing  values — " 


THE    WAY    OF   HIS    CASTE  273 

The  judge  had  shaken  his  head.  It  always  annoyed 
him  to  have  to  consider  that  it  was  not  enough  to  be 
virtuous.  It  was  comfortable  to  believe  that  every 
thing  was  honest,  decent,  wholesome,  God-fearing  and 
conformable  to  the  constitution — everything  except  the 
men  who  passed  before  him  at  the  bench.  They  were 
another  order  of  beings ;  he  deprecated  their  existence, 
and  sent  them  to  jail.  When  Harlan  had  gone  up-town 
the  father  sighed.  It  was  well  enough  to  sit  behind 
the  impersonality  of  the  law,  but  the  one-armed  quarry- 
man  standing  guard  over  his  wretched  patch  against 
all  society,  mute,  imbruted,  hostile!  Men  had  talked 
of  it:  "Judge  Van  Hart  sent  him  to  jail  two  years  ago 
and  he's  hardly  spoken  to  a  soul  since ;  just  kept  to  his 
shanty,  took  his  children  out  of  school  and  become  a 
sort  of  religious  fanatic  and  anarchist/' 

The  judge  spoke  to  his  wife  at  bedtime.  "My  dear, 
do  you  suppose  that  extraordinary  affair  he  had  with 
that  girl  two  years  ago  had  anything  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"With  itT  She  looked  up  in  surprise.  "Lind- 
strom  ?" 

"Yes.  The  girl  has  been  back,  you  know,  and  is — 
I'm  told — extraordinarily  pretty." 

The  lady  sniffed.  "I  told  you  how  she  nearly  upset 
my  trap !" 

"But  Harlan—" 

"Harlan  did  not  glance  at  her — her  scandalous  be 
havior  around  the  Square !  The  dust  of  that  machine 
was  thrown  in  every  one's  face !  And  that  affair — a 
mere  boy's  infatuation — for  a  month.  And  her  career 
since — the  impossible  stories  they  tell  of  her!  As  if 
it  were  possible  with  Harlan !"  She  had  a  Roman  ma- 


274  THE    MIDLANDERS 

Iron's  pride  in  this  square-jawed  serious  son.  A  cen 
tury  of  American  democracy  was  needed  for  him,  the 
sober  sturdy  sort  of  which  they  had  sprung. 

The  judge  sighed  again.  "Somehow,  he  has  never 
been  quite  the  same  to  me  since — he  has  seemed  to 
look  at  us  now  and  then  so  measuringly — and  there 
has  been  something  almost  abnormal  in  his  desire  for 
work — as  if  he  were  trying  to  forget !" 

Harlan  was  in  his  office  two  hours  on  that  same  in 
domitable  application.  At  eight  he  closed  the  desk  and 
went  across  to  Wiley's  shop,  for  a  light  was  there,  and 
he  felt  like  bantering  the  editor  as  in  the  old  days.  It 
would  be  a  relief  after  the  curious  sense  of  strain  he  had 
come  to  feel  at  home.  Yet  he  could  not  bring  back 
exactly  the  old  open  comradeship  with  Wiley;  and 
that,  also,  was  curious.  He  had  felt  oddly  alone,  con 
scious  as  he  was  of  a  furtive  and  friendly  interest  in 
him.  When  he  dropped  in  the  court-house  the  other 
candidates  were  cordial,  but  there  was  a  hushing  of 
conversation.  He  began  to  "mix  with  the  county 
crowd",  as  he  said,  under  an  idea  that  it  was  what  a 
young  man,  and  the  only  new  face  on  the  ticket,  should 
do.  But  somehow  he  was  treated  with  respect  and 
passed  by  in  the  chaffing  fellowship  of  the  local  poli-» 
ticians. 

He  spoke  of  it  to  Curran  as  they  sat  in  the  dusk. 
Curran  was  complacently  at  ease  since  his  triumph ;  he 
had  discovered  a  pleasant  vanity  in  this  new  regard  of 
men.  "Perhaps,"  he  suggested,  "they're  rather  afraid 
of  you,  Harlan.  You've  laid  aside  your  bulldog  pipe, 
and  the  college  clothes  do  not  stick  out  so  conspicu 
ously,  but  all  the  same  you're  different."  He  eyed  the 


THE   WAY   OF   HIS    CASTE  275 

young  man  intently.  "And  besides,  you'll  be  the  dis 
trict  attorney,  the  first  one  whom  they  are  unable  to 
size  up." 

"I  don't  see  what  any  honest  man  has  to  fear  in 
that." 

Curran  smiled  enigmatically.  "Exactly!  But  there 
are  Dan  Boydston  and  Curry,  the  two  men  who  put 
through  Tanner's  contracts  on  the  board — all  friends 
of  your  father's,  but  you — well,  the  old  crowd  wonders 
about  you." 

Harlan  looked  away.  Boydston's  daughter  was  one 
of  the  two  or  three  town  girls  under  his  mother's 
especial  social  chaperonage,  who  met  their  eastern  con 
nections. 

"Well,  they  all  supposed  that  the  son  of  your  father 
was  safe!" 

Harlan  watched  him  silently.  The  elder  man  went 
on  more  slowly:  "It's  just  that  things  have  come  too 
easy  for  you,  boy.  Never  had  a  rough  and  tumble  fight 
in  your  life — clean,  strong,  sheltered!  That's  why  I — 
I  loved  you,  son!  And  why  I — I  envy  you.  I  wasted 
so  many  years,  oh,  so  many  years !" 

And  while  they  sat  in  the  dusk  the  eyes  of  both  went 
to  the  street,  to  four  men  who  were  crossing  from  the 
courtyard.  One  was  Rube  Van  Hart.  Rube  and  au 
tumn  were  here  once  more.  Another  was  Arne  Vance. 
Another  was  T.  P.  Purcell,  the  dapper  young  lawyer- 
manager  of  Mr.  Curran's  campaign.  And  the  fourth 
was  a  little,  cheap-arrayed,  fast-talking  man  at  sight 
of  whom  Curran  started  with  a  smothered  cry. 

Rube  greeted  them  all  with  his  laconic  shyness. 
"Finished  with  the  Cotton  Belt  League,  Wiley.  They 


276  THE    MIDLANDERS 

canned  me  when  the  pennant  rush  came.  And  here's  a 
guy  that  used  to  know  you,  he  says.  Shagged  up  the 
line  with  me  from  Memphis.  I  happened  to  mention 
you,  and  he  sure  was  delighted  to  find  his  old  friend, 
Wiley  !  Ladeau,  that's  his  name." 

Curran  was  staring.  "Maurice,"  he  muttered  at 
last. 

The  newcomer's  small  coffee-colored  face  wrinkled 
amiably.  He  held  out  his  hand.  Arne  Vance  and  T. 
P.  Purcell  appeared  noting,  with  merciless  intentness, 
Curran's  greeting.  Curran,  the  most  democratic  of 
men,  to  whom  even  the  lame  dogs  came  for  sympathy, 
appeared  not  honored  by  Ladeau's  acquaintance. 

"Curran,"  muttered  Mr.  Purcell,  "Arne  and  I  came 
on  this  man  in  front  of  the  billiard  hall.  He  was  say 
ing  something — telling  some  crazy  yarn.  But  we — we 
heard  a  bit,  and  we  took  him  away !" 

Curran  glanced  at  his  friend's  face.  Arne  was  grim. 
The  newcomer  went  on  with  reminiscent  pleasure: 
"Yaas,  I  sho'  remember  dat  Wiley  man !  I  say,  when 
dis  Rube  tell  me  he  is  here :  'Our  ol'  Wiley  ?  Name  o' 
God — dat  same  Wiley  of  dem  ol'  scalawag  days ! 
How  we  laugh — him  an'  me,  and  Gamblin'  Gawge, 
when  we  all  get  run  out  of  Ascencion  fo'  dem  games 
we  run !' " 

The  candidate  was  staring,  listening.  Ladeau 
beamed  on:  "And  at  Plaquemine  we  was  all  broke. 
Name  o'  God,  we  all  come  down  to  ax  ol'  man  Bouvier 
fo'  feesh  heads  to  make  a  cou'bouillon  under  de 
bridge." 

Wiley  raised  a  deprecating  hand.  He  smiled  wanly. 
"Maurice,  I — I — never  touched  a  card  since."  He 


THE    WAY    OF    HIS    CASTE  277 

smiled  still  on  his  political  backers :  "Never,  since — " 

" Since  dat  leetle  Adrienne  made  you  promise  when 
you  tak  her  to  N'Awlyns.  Eheu,  dem  ol'  Creole  days !" 
He  sighed— "Dat  leetle  Adrienne  of  Butte  La  Rose !" 

The  dapper  Mr.  Purcell  coughed.  Arne  stirred. 
"Wiley,  were  you  ever  married  ?" 

The  chuckle  of  the  stranger  broke  the  pause.  "Mar 
ried?  Dem  Cajun  girls,  when  dey  love — Nom  de 
Dieu! — dey  don't  stop  fo'  marriage!" 

The  Honorable  T.  P.  Purcell  coughed  again.  He 
glanced  hurriedly  out  the  door  at  a  passer-by,  then  at 
the  candidate.  "I  think,  gentlemen,  this  is  enough. 
All  very  interesting  to  Mr.  Curran,  but  it's  nothing  to 
do  with  his  campaign.  I'm  glad" — he  wiped  his  man 
agerial  brow  perplexedly — "we  overheard  this!  I  was 
coming  to  speak  to  Mr.  Curran  about  his  campaign 
this  fall,  and  we  just  stumbled  on  this — ah — gossip, 
fortunately!  We  brought  him  to  you,  Wiley!"  He 
looked  at  his  watch  and  smiled:  "This  talk — if  it  is 
true — Well,  I  must  go  !  And  Wiley" — he  turned  to  the 
candidate — "remember  the  committee  wants  you  to  go 
through  Dallas  County  like  a  house  afire.  Start  at 
Pleasantville  on  the  tenth.  But  Harper  will  speak 
with  you,  and  we'll  arrange  the  rest  of  the  program 
later."  He  came  to  take  Wiley's  hand — "And,  old  man, 
I'd  cut  out  all  these  malingerings  of  youth  with  our 
loquacious  friend,  here." 

"Tom,"  muttered  Wiley,  "it  was  almost  twenty 
years  ago!" 

"Then  it's  all  outlawed.  But  this  constituency  of 
yours — and  yon  know  how  sensitive  they  are  to  gossip 
of  the  sort.  Decent,  wholesome,  God-fearing  people — 


278  THE    MIDLANDERS 

you  know  Americans  in  general  will  never  stand  for 
any  sort  of— of — well,  this  sort  of  thing,  Wiley !  Puri 
tans — that's  it — that's  what  we  are!  Except  about 
money!  But  this  sort  of  thing" — he  looked  about  at 
the  others  again  and  smiled.  "Just  between  friends, 
eh?" 

Arne  nodded.  If  Wiley  Curran  had  confessed  to 
philandering  with  the  whole  tribe  of  Cajuns,  whoever 
they  were,  there  would  have  been  those  to  love  him. 
When  Purcell  had  gone,  Arne  arose  and  touched 
Wiley's  arm.  "Look  here,  why  didn't  you  ever  tell 
some  one  of  this  ?" 

"Why?  It  was  long  ago — before  I  drifted  West— 
when  I'd  landed  in  New  Orleans  broke  from  Cuba. 
We  had  a  filibustering  gang  and  it  busted.  Oh,  well — " 
he  sighed.  "Arne,  what's  the  use  of  calling  up  things  ? 
I'm  not  ashamed  of  anything — much.  Young  and  foot 
free — and,  anyhow,  I  always  played  fair  with  women 
and  everybody." 

"I  know  it.  But  this — girl,  Wiley  ?  Did  you  marry 
her?" 

There  was  a  stillness  for  a  long  time.  Outside  a 
late  bird  was  singing  in  the  sugar  trees  and  the  wind 
was  south.  It  seemed  to  bring  a  dream  to  Wiley's 
eyes;  nights  of  youth,  misspent  but  unutterably  dear 
in  memory. 

"Did  you  marry  her,  Wiley  ?" 

Wiley  turned  slowly  toward  him  with  a  touch  of  de 
fiance.  "Yes." 

Arne  stood  back.  "That's  all  I  want  to  know,  old 
boy.  And  Janet,  too!  You'd  better  tell  her.  You'd 
better  have  everything  above  board  to  begin  with.  It's 


THE   WAY   OF   HIS    CASTE  279 

the  only  way.  Purcell's  right — the  people,  the  great, 
clean,  wholesome  heart  of  the  people !  They  sort  of 
love  you,  Wiley — but  they  wouldn't  stand  anything  in 
a  leader  that  seemed — a — a  double  life." 

"It  never  was  that !  I  never  concealed  a  thing.  Only 
here,  when  I  drifted  back  to  the  old  town,  what  was 
the  use  ?  All  dead  and  buried,  Arne." 

"This  girl  ?"  Arne  turned  abruptly  to  Ladeau.  "You 
know  what  became  of  her  ?" 

"Dat  Wiley  man— ask  him!" 

"I  was  told,"  retorted  Wiley,  "that  she  died.  It 
was  after  I  went  West — two  years  after.  I — I  sent  her 
money,  Arne.  You  see  we  never  lived  together — we 
couldn't  make  it  go.  And  we  parted — and  she  ... 
died!" 

Arne  took  his  hand.  "I  don't  care.  I  won't  ask  any 
more.  I'm  with  Purcell.  We'll  be  with  you  to  the  fin 
ish."  He  turned  away  with  a  sort  of  choke.  To  Arne 
Vance,  with  his  ascetic  humor  of  a  propagandist,  his 
capacity  for  enthusiasm,  Curran  had  become,  since  his 
victory,  a  figure  panoplied  with  power,  their  leader, 
their  loved  one.  He  had  still  a  boy's  vision  and  the 
need  of  hero-loving.  When  he  had  gone  out  to  his 
team  at  the  hitching-rail,  Rube  Van  Hart  sauntered 
after.  "So  Wiley's  running  for  congress?  Sufferin' 
Johnson,  Arne — I  can't  believe  it!  But  if  this  here 
Cajun  I  brought  up  from  the  bush-league  towns  is  go 
ing  to  hurt  him,  I'll  kill  the  cuss !  Yes,  sir ;  take  him 
to  Eagle  Point  and  let  him  fall  off — accidentally." 

Arne  looked  back  at  the  News  shop.  Harlan  was  in 
the  door.  The  Cajun,  in  Wiley's  office  seat,  rolling  a 
cigarette,  had  come  to  stay,  it  seemed.  "Hurt  him?" 


280  THE    MIDLANDERS 

blurted  Arne.  "That  story  would  beat  him,  if  Tanner 
and  his  crowd  ever  got  it!  But  we — we  can  keep  it 
close,  Rube,  if  you'll  help." 

"Help  ?  Help  Wiley  ?  Why  we  was  kids  together — 
him  and  me !" 

He  got  in  with  Arne  and  they  drove  off  to  the  stables. 

Back  in  the  office,  Ladeau,  with  the  air  of  a  barber 
in  distress,  oily-haired,  shabby  of  coat,  was  fumbling  in 
a  pocket  for  tobacco.  Curran  silently  extended  his  case. 

"Merci!"  smiled  the  Cajun.  "Yo'  sho'  nev'  fo'get  old 
friends,  Wiley !" 

Still  Curran  had  no  word.  Harlan,  studying  him  si 
lently,  had  never  seen  him  so  in  a  dream.  The  stranger 
settled  himself  in  the  chair  with  the  air  of  one  who  had 
come  on  a  lucky  turn  of  fortune.  "And  I  come  up  wif 
dat  Rube  and  find  yo'  first  thing!  Rube  say  you  run 
fo'  congress  ?" 

"Yes.    I  have  the  nomination." 

"Who'd  t'ought  dat  ?  Old  Wiley  who  used  to  play 
dat  guitar  fo'  dem  island  girls  to  dance  at  La  Che- 
niere !" 

The  candidate  ran  his  hands  through  his  hair  and 
looked  off  at  the  Methodist  Church  spire.  "It's  differ 
ent  up  here,  Maurice.  I — I'm  mighty  glad  to  see  you — 
but  I — I — wish  you  hadn't  come !"  He  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  Harlan's  presence.  Suddenly  he  uprose  and 
came  swiftly  to  the  other. 

"See  here,  Maurice  !  Why  can't  you  get  out  of  town  ? 
You  see  you'll  get  to  talking,  if  you  hang  around ;  and 
my  friends — it  will  bother  them!  Personally,  I  don't 
care,  but  they — the  people,  these  western  country  peo 
ple—" 


THE   WAY    OF   HIS    CASTE  281 

He  stopped.  In  Ladeau's  small  eyes  was  a  curious 
confidence  of  evil. 

"Eheu  !  Dese  Yankees !  Dey  boil  d'  coffee,  Wiley ! 
Savages  !  But  dey  don't  know  you,  eh  ?  Dat  it  ?" 

Curran  was  staring  out  the  window.  Ladeau  came 
nearer.  "I  reckon  yo'  got  a  dollar  fo'  an  old  friend, 
Wiley  ?" 

Wiley's  hand  went  down.    "Here." 

"Mebbe  five  dollars?  Look  at  dem  shoes — name  of 
God !  Dat  Rube— we  walk  from  St.  Joe !" 

"I — haven't  that  much  here,  Maurice.  But — well, 
I'll  get  it.  But  for  God's  sake,  go  ;  let  me  think  a  bit !" 
Then,  as  Ladeau  shambled  on  a  step,  he  hurried  to  him. 
''Wait.  You  know  of  Adrienne?  She  died — are  you 
sure  she  died  ?" 

"Madame  Artois  tell  me  when  I  go  back  to  N'Awlyns 
fo'  years  after.  She  say  she  write  yo'.  She  say  yo' 
send  back  wan  beautiful  letter  when  Adrienne  died — 
just  what  a  poet  would  say,  Wiley.  Wan  beautiful  let 
ter — but  no  money  to  bury  Adrienne !" 

"I — know.  I  was  broke  out  in  Arizona,  Maurice. 
Madame  Artois  knows  that.  I  just  could  thank  her  for 
taking  care  of  Adrienne,  that  was  all." 

"Oh,  madame  know !  She  cry  when  she  read  dat  let 
ter.  All  women  yo'  can  make  cry,  somehow,  madame 
she  say.  Eheu,  dat  beautiful  letter !" 

Curran  was  watching  past  him  to  the  western  sky. 
"To-morrow,"  he  muttered,  "come  back,  Maurice,  and 
I'll  do  what  I  can — that  money.  But  I — haven't  much. 
I'm  in  debt  terribly." 

He  watched  Ladeau  shamble  down  the  street  feeling 
of  the  dollar,  turning  presently  into  the  billiard  hall 


282  THE    MIDLANDERS 


.- 


among  the  idlers.  He  did  not  see  Harlan  in  the  shad 
ows.  After  a  while  he  raised  his  hand  toward  the 
shiftless  figure.  "That — might  have  been  me!  Me — 
me!  But  God  help  me — I'm  saved !" 

From  the  numbing  vision  of  his  own  past  he  turned 
slowly  and  saw  the  younger  man.  He  came  to  him 
swiftly.  "Do  you  hear,  Harlan?  Just  that — a  sham- 
bier,  a  wreck !"  He  sat  down  and  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands.  Presently  he  writhed  with  some  agony. 
"God,  what  a  man  misses,"  he  exclaimed,  "what  he 
flings  away !  What  ghosts  come  back,  Harlan  !  After 
twenty  years !" 

"What  is  it,  Wiley— that  hurts  so?" 

"I  don't  know.  Fear — that  must  be  it.  Nervous  fear. 
Of  late  it's  been  so  fine  just  to  live,  Harlan.  To  go 
down  the  street  and  feel  that  you've  done  something! 
That  you  have  ambition,  purpose;  and  that  they've 
counted  with  men.  That's  it — that  you've  won!  New 
hope,  new  courage ;  I've  felt  like  shouting  it  to  all  the 
world !" 

"I  know,  Wiley." 

"No,  you  don't,  boy.  You've  got  to  be  down  and  out 
first ;  you've  got  to  be  adrift  and  lose  hope,  and  know 
yourself  the  failure  first,  before  you  can  ever  realize 
how  fine  it  is  to  succeed,  how  sweet  it  is  to  live.  Oh, 
boy,  when  I  was  your  age  I  drifted  over  all  the  old 
West — it  was  a  big  adventure.  I  wanted  to  write  what 
I  felt — its  sweep  and  power  and  bigness !  Nevada, 
New  Mexico,  California,  Alaska — wherever  life  beat 
fast  and  free,  I  wandered.  But  I  couldn't  write  it — no 
— no !  It  was  too  big  and  splendid  for  me — the  epic. 
But  I  lived  it,  Harlan!  And  then  I  came  back  here 


THE   WAY   OF    HIS    CASTE  283 

when  father  died  and  left  me  the  old  shop.  No  one 
knew ;  I  had  failed,  that's  all.  I  settled  down  here  and 
worked,  but  the  old  fine  ardor  was  gone.  Eight  years 
of  this  village — common,  prosy,  dull — not  one  to  speak 
with  of  the  big  things  but  you  and  Janet !  And  then  I 
awakened — why  here  was  the  poem  I  had  dreamed  and 
lost — here  was  my  work,  my  place,  my  people — "  He 
lifted  his  arm  and  swept  it  out  to  hills  beyond  the  leafy 
Square.  "Yes,  I  got  back  my  old  spirit,  my  fighting 
soul,  but  I  didn't  put  it  into  a  poem,  Harlan — but  into 
politics,  this  battle — and  won !" 

Harlan  had  stirred  before  his  ecstasy.  Was  this  the 
man  of  yesterday? — this  winging  spirit,  whom  the 
smug  town  had  never  understood? — who  had  come 
back  to  an  ennobling  youth  ? 

Wiley  came  to  put  his  hand  upon  the  younger  man's 
shoulder :  "I  won,  and  there's  something  for  me,  Har 
lan.  There's  work,  there's  life — there's  love!"  He 
straightened  and  struck  his  fists  together.  "And  I  am 
not  afraid,  boy !  I  tell  you  I've  not  been  myself  all  this 
year — I've  been  reborn !"  He  sat  at  his  desk  and  stared 
out  at  the  summer  night.  "The  glory  of  it !  The  beauty 
of  it!"  Again  he  turned  and  reached  his  hand  across 
the  table  to  his  friend.  "Oh,  the  great  hours  we've 
spent  here,  boy !  You  can't  tell  what  it  all  meant.  You 
are  so  different  from  me,  but  here  your  manhood  was 
formed,  Harlan — and  you  watched  my  fight,  too !  Just 
battering  away  here  at  the  old  press — and  then  the  light 
dawned.  She  came,  Harlan !" 

"She?    Janet?" 

The  other  man  stared  at  him.  "Janet?  Why,  no! 
Aurelie !" 


284  THE    MIDLANDERS 

Harlan  did  not  stir.  Then  he  muttered  as  to  himself. 
"They  told  me!" 

'Told  you  ?"  A  high  and  serene  smile  came  to  Cur- 
ran's  face.  "I  didn't  think  any  one  knew !  Why,  who 
could  guess  ?  Oh,  well — what  matter  !  It's  asOld  Mich 
says :  'A  little  child  shall  lead  'em !  Done  lead  'em  to 
the  land  o'  joy!'  Yes;  that  was  it,  Harlan.  She  led 
that  old  whisky-peddling  soldier  to  love  and  decency ; 
and  she  led  me  out  of  failure !  God  bless  the  kid  with 
all  her  impudence  and  poses  and  absurdities !" 

"You  never  told  me,  Wiley !" 

"What  was  there  to  tell  ?  It  just  grew  on  me — that's 
all."  Then  he  stopped  still ;  so  still  were  they  both  that 
the  crickets  in  the  old  shop  wall  resumed  their  singing. 
Wiley  first  groped  to  utterance.  He  turned,  and  his 
voice  was  a  whisper. 

"Harlan,  that  old  affair? — you  and  Aurelie?  You 
don't  love  her !" 

"Yes." 

Again  the  pause.  And  again  the  mutter  in  the  dusk. 
"Why,  boy,  you  told  me  long  ago  you'd  given  her  up. 
She  outraged  you — your  people — your  standards — 
everything.  Why,  I  never  dreamed — "  He  stared 
speechlessly. 

"No,  I  never  told  you.  But  I  do,  Wiley!  I've 
waited — sometime  she'll  need  me — sometime,  when 
things  go  wrong  in  this  abominable  business  she's  in ! 
I've  worked  and  waited  and  kept  silent — but  I've 
watched !" 

"She  doesn't  love  you." 

"She  does." 


THE    WAY    OF    HIS    CASTE  285 

The  elder  man  was  still.  And  suddenly  the  other 
leaned  to  him.  "See  here.  What  do  you  mean, 
Wiley?" 

"Mean?" 

"Yes.    They  told  me — see  here — do  you  love  her?" 

Curran  was  silent  again.  Then  his  soft  laugh,  but 
it  was  wrung  from  a  strange  loneliness. 

"Love  her  ?  Are  they  saying  that  ?  Poor  kid !  As  if 
she  hadn't  enough  to  contend  with  as  it  is !  And  I  ?" 

"I  ask  you,  Wiley  ?"  The  younger  man's  voice  arose 
in  passion.  "Tell  me !" 

"You  ought  to  know.  You  know  what  you've  al 
ways  been  to  me,  boy.  No  one  closer — no  one  in  all 
the  world!  And  what  was  finest  for  you — what  was 
for  your  happiness — that  is  what  I  wanted  always.  But 
Aurelie — I  couldn't  think  of  that,  somehow !" 

"But  love  her,  Wiley — you!"  The  younger  man 
arose. 

"No.  I  don't.  Not  that  way.  I  can't.  I'm  a  trifler 
with  everything.  Only  Aurelie — I  can't  explain  it. 
Some  beautiful  mystery  is  over  it  all.  She  touched  me 
so !  She's  crept  so  near.  She's  made  life  and  work  so 
precious.  God  bless  the  kid !  I  tell  you  I  can't  under 
stand  it,  Harlan!" 

But  the  other  man  stared  at  him  with  his  jaw  setting. 
"I  understand  it !"  He  was  up  and  turning  to  the  door. 
"Yes  !"  And  he  was  gone. 

Curran  sat  in  the  dusk  of  his  shop.  "Who  will  un 
derstand?"  he  whispered.  "Janet?  Harlan?  I  can't 
myself !  To  dream  of  her — to  shelter  and  protect  her — 
if  that  is  loving,  then  I  love — " 


286  THE    MIDLANDERS 

He  broke  off  staring  into  the  summer  night.  It  grew 
palpitant  with  phantoms ;  fears,  fancies — ghosts  troop 
ing  out  of  the  long  years  of  failure  and  despair.  And 
he  had  thought  of  late  that  he  had  defeated  the  misbe 
lieving  horde. 


CHAPTER  XX 

A  LITTLE  SILVER  CRUCIFIX 

THAT  autumn,  after  the  frost  had  put  the  fodder- 
cutting  by,  Bert  Hemminger,  the  member  of  the 
county  board  from  the  bottoms  district,  drove  down  the 
road  that  wound  from  the  clay  hills  back  of  the  quar 
ries  to  town,  and  came  upon  a  curious  sight.  About 
the  abutment  of  the  unfinished  bridge,  under  which  the 
diverted  waters  of  Sinsinawa  Creek  were  to  flow  back 
to  a  long-choked  channel,  were  cement  barrels  and 
grading  machines  scattered  as  if  abandoned  in  some 
confusion.  No  work  was  being  done  beyond  the  line 
fence,  and  forty  yards  from  that,  on  a  blackened  stump, 
sat  a  gaunt  and  silent  man  who  rested  a  shotgun  across 
his  knees. 

The  county  board  member  stared  and  then  drove  on. 
In  front  of  Lindstrom's  gate,  where  he  turned  to  town, 
Hemminger  saw  Uncle  Mich  sitting  on  a  broken  wagon 
tongue.  "What's  this  fool  John  doing  up  there?"  he 
asked. 

Michigan  continued  to  whittle  the  old  vegetable 
basket  under  whose  cover  he  was  wont  to  peddle  his 
illicit  trade.  "Won't  let  the  Tanner  foreman  finish  the 
job,  Mr.  Hemminger.  Done  told  'em  agin  to  quit. 
Perkins,  the  foreman,  laid  off  his  men  and  went  back 
to  town  to  complain  agin." 

287 


288  THE    MIDLANDERS 

"John'll  get  hurt  foolin'  with  Perkins'  dagos — and 
the  law,  too."  The  supervisor's  eye  went  to  the  old 
man's  basket.  "Uncle  Mich — when  this  new  district 
attorney  is  elected,  all  you  fellows  will  have  to  quit 
the  whisky  trade !" 

"I  reckon.  The  sheriff  he  ax  all  us  bootleggers  to 
let  up  until  after  he  gets  re  elected  I  But  I  quit  for 
good." 

"Quit?    You!" 

"Done  quit.  My  little  girl  did  it,  Mr.  Hemminger. 
She  and  Mr.  Curran,  they  done  want  me  to  quit.  Mr. 
Curran  and  our  little  girl." 

Mr.  Hemminger  drove  on  with  a  sigh.  The  story 
of  "them  actresses"  had  done  Mr.  Curran  no  good,  de 
spite  his  winning  fight.  Neither  did  his  Quixotic  cham 
pionship  of  the  Pocket  squatters.  Mr.  Curran  was  al 
ways  meddling  in  some  unprofitable  affair,  the  de 
fender  of  some  lame-dog  cause.  When  Mr.  Hemmin 
ger  reached  Janet  Vance's  office  to  discuss  the  new 
seats  for  his  district  school  with  her,  he  touched  on  Mr. 
Curran's  weaknesses.  "Somebody  ought  to  hold  Wiley 
in  tight,  Miss  Vance.  He  needs  it.  And  he's  coming 
on  so  big,  Wiley  is." 

She  smiled,  wondering  what  curious  pain  it  gave 
her  to  hear  Curran  praised  by  these  rugged  men  of  the 
country  who  daily  came  into  her  office.  Her  farmer 
constituents  took  a  shy  gratification  in  Janet's  appre 
ciation  of  their  homely  affairs.  They  were  proud  of 
her  also.  "Old  Jake's  girl  was  a  smart  one — maybe 
she  would  marry  this  new  fighting  governor  who  was 
so  mighty  interested  in  her !  But  then  there  was  Wiley 
Curran !"  They  were  proud  of  him,  too. 


A   LITTLE    SILVER   CRUCIFIX         289 

An  hour  later,  glancing  out,  she  saw  Curran  and 
Hemminger  together,  their  shoulders  to  a  heavy  cast 
ing  which  some  farmer  was  trying  to  load  in  his  wagon 
at  Dickinson's  warehouse.  And  again  her  faint  smile 
came.  Yes,  they  loved  him — they  had  made  place  for 
him.  And  she?  Well,  she  had  done  her  part  also  for 
him.  And  she  knew  him  so  much  better  than  any  of 
them! 

Curran  had  been  busied  all  the  final  campaign.  There 
was  fear  that  the  old  county  gang  would  knife  his 
candidacy,  so  his  backers  had  kept  him  at  the  front.  But 
he  had  no  misgivings.  He  had  returned  to  his  home 
town  brown  and  hearty,  pleased  with  the  sense  of  vic 
tory.  He  had  discovered  surprising  qualities  in  himself, 
a  caustic  retort,  a  merciless  clearness  that  pleased  the 
farmers.  The  papers  commented  on  his  ''brilliance." 
Janet  had  read  and  listened.  It  was  more  than  win 
ning  a  campaign ;  it  was  the  making  of  a  man. 

He  saw  her  when  he  passed  the  court-house  and 
came  to  her,  eager,  volatile,  bubbling  with  tales  of  the 
progressive  cause.  "I  made  'em  listen,  Janet !" 

Then  in  her  calm  eyes,  back  of  her  serene  smile,  he 
seemed  to  read  again  the  inexplicable  pain  which  he 
did  not  care  to  fathom.  And  he  went  from  her,  stead 
ied  by  a  sense  of  her  faith,  but  refusing  to  dwell  upon 
it.  It  was  like  his  estrangement  from  Harlan — at  first 
it  had  been  a  desperate  hurt.  But  through  the  weeks, 
rising  with  his  new  fighting  life,  he  had  fiercely  told 
himself  that  he  would  yield  nothing;  he  was  crying 
out  to  life  with  a  Dionysian  gladness — he  would  seize 
growth  and  power  and  recreate  himself.  So,  when  he 
found  a  letter  from  Aurelie  on  his  desk,  he  cried  out 


290  THE    MIDLANDERS 

as  if  a  meteor  had  lighted  his  dingy  shop.  Aurelie,  the 
village  baggage, Old  Michigan's  girl;  the  one-time  rab 
bit  hunter  of  the  hills,  the  ridiculous  beauty-prize  win 
ner  ;  an  actress  trapesing  over  the  land  with  an  ambition 
to  come  back  with  a  bull-pup  and  a  press-agent  to  star 
tle  the  old  town!  Janet  was  right:  if  there  was  any 
thing  needed  to  "finish"  Wiley  Curran  it  was  Aurelie 
Lindstrom.  But  he  would  not  admit  this.  His  Celtic 
sense  of  romance  begilded  his  world  still ;  a  bit  of  tinsel 
would  hold  his  eye  and  always  would.  Yet  he  knew 
better  than  any  one  how  desperately  he  needed  the  cool 
and  sober  judgment  of  men  and  women — that  was  what 
could  make  him ;  that  was  what  was  making  him  now 
in  his  new  life,  the  faith,  the  love  of  these  prosy  farm 
folk  of  the  Midlands. 

But  Aurelie  had  written!  And  at  once  the  walls  of 
his  shop  fell  away  to  vistas  of  enchantment. 

"I'm  engaged!"  said  Aurelie,  in  her  firm,  upright, 
high-school  hand.  Mr.  Curran  started  feverishly.  "In 
a  musical  comedy,  and  the  manager  says  I  can  sing! 
Oh,  what  do  you  think  of  that?  Not  much,  but  enough. 
But  Ada  Norman  says  my  face  did  it,  and  I'd  never 
got  a  show  if  I  hadn't  made  Cohan's  office  boy  laugh. 
But  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Curran,  we  were  right  up  against 
it!  Ada  and  I  pawned  our  trunks,  and  when  she 
stacked  me  out  in  the  best  clothes  we  could  get  I  sailed 
into  some  of  these  people.  And  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Cur 
ran,  the  day  I  got  my  job  we  were  down  to  oatmeal 
cooked  over  the  gas-jet  in  our  room.  But  there's  noth 
ing  to  a  race  but  the  finish !  Oatmeal  isn't  so  bad." 

"Oh,  Aurelie !"  groaned  Mr.  Curran,  "and  that  taxi, 


A   LITTLE    SILVER   CRUCIFIX         291 

and  the  dollar  you  gave  a  bell-boy  over  at  the  Metro- 
pole  !" 

The  letter  went  on:  "And  what  do  you  think,  Mr. 
Curran,  I  was  only  in  that  chorus  six  weeks  when 
Cohan  &  Snitz  decided  to  put  a  road  show  out,  and 
they  picked  me  out  of  the  New  York  production  to 
understudy  the  comedienne.  They  said  I  was  funny! 
I  suppose  I  made  faces  and  kicked  up  my  heels — "  "Oh, 
Rome!  Oh,  the  Shakespeare  Club!"  murmured  Mr. 
Curran. — "So  I'm  going  out  on  the  road  with  the  sec 
ond  Girl  and  The  Burglar  company.  We  aren't  so 
classy  as  the  New  York  bunch  but  it  gives  me  a  chance. 
I  like  New  York.  You  ought  to  see  the  clothes  I've 
got.  When  we  open  in  Chicago  on  the  tenth  you  just 
got  to  come  and  see  me  act. 

"P.  S.— Tell  all  those  grannies  who  don't  like  me, 
about  The  Girl  and  The  Burglar.  But  don't  say  any 
thing  about  the  oatmeal ! 

"P.  S. — Pretty  soon  I'll  send  you  some  stuff  to  put 
in  the  paper. 

"P.  S. — I  saw  three  little  rabbits  under  a  bridge  yes 
terday  when  the  train  went  by. 

"With  love, 

"AURELIE." 

The  congressional  candidate  folded  the  letter  over  so 
that  only  "With  love,  Aurelie"  showed.  He  gazed  at 
it.  Then  he  sat  down  and  tried  to  recall  Aurelie.  What 
she  liked,  and  how  she  laughed  or  rebelled— what  in 
evitability  of  life  had  made  her  as  it  made  all  the  rest 
of  us. 

He  went  about  the  next  month,  in  and  out  of  the 


292  THE    MIDLANDERS 

county,  speaking  wherever  the  need  took  him.  It  was 
not  until  his  next  breathing-space,  that,  back  in  his  of 
fice  to  pick  up  the  odds  and  ends  of  work — for  the 
task  of  getting  out  the  Nezvs  had  fallen  to  Aunt  Abby 
and  his  mongrel  printers — he  met  Harlan.  While 
Wiley  had  been  on  his  whirlwind  campaign,  Harlan 
had  kept  to  his  petty  lawyering  with  Donley.  He  had 
no  fight  to  make.  The  county  committee  took  care  of 
that.  His  sort  of  politics  needed  no  noise  nor  appeal — 
it  was  not  a  part  of  the  Cambridge-Virginia  traditions 
of  his  family. 

Harlan  came  in  on  him  one  chill  night  of  October. 
Wiley  had  been  hurt,  for  it  seemed,  since  his  return, 
that  Harlan  had  evaded  him.  Others  had  noticed  it. 
Arne  Vance  had  truculently  attributed  it  to  politics — 
Harlan  was  going  the  way  of  the  old  gang,  was  he? 
Well,  Arne  had  grimly  forecasted  it.  Associations  and 
traditions  were  too  strong  for  Harlan. 

Curran  and  Harlan  faced  each  other  now  with  a 
dumb  recognition  of  the  hurt  in  each  other's  eyes.  The 
old  glad  faith — where  had  it  gone? 

Curran  had  been  at  brief  troubled  analysis  of  it  all, 
even  with  the  turmoil  of  his  battle.  And  Janet's  serene 
aloofness,  yet  steadfast  ardor  for  his  success.  "They 
think  I  love  her,"  he  had  muttered  restlessly,  time  and 
again.  "I — why,  it's  ridiculous !  Twice  her  age,  and — 
lordy!  getting  bald  as  I  am — and  everything  about 
me — a  trifler  with  women."  And  then  he  studied. 
"Well,  that  kid !  God  bless  her !  Nothing  ever  hit  me 
so  hard.  I  wish  they'd  understand !" 

But  to  save  Mr.  Curran  he  couldn't  make  out  what 
he  wanted  any  one  to  understand.  He  was  in  some 


A   LITTLE    SILVER   CRUCIFIX         293 

bewildering  struggle,  he  told  himself — and  could  not 
understand  himself ! 

He  stood  across  his  desk  from  the  imperturbable 
young  man.  How  Harlan  had  grown  these  years !  His 
man's  bulk  and  dignity,  his  outgiving  of  power  and 
personality.  Wiley  had  envied  it,  even  with  his  great 
hurt  love  for  the  boy.  It  was  curious  how  things  come 
to  one  man  without  price  for  which  another  struggles 
lifelong  in  vain.  He  tried  now  to  come  back  to  the 
dear  familiar  ground  with  Harlan,  and  Harlan  would 
not  have  it. 

The  younger  man  was  unfolding  a  paper  from  his 
pocket.  And  suddenly  a  fear  shot  through  Curran 
that  it  had  to  do  with  that  hushed  story  of  Ladeau's. 
They  had  kept  it  well  quiet,  yet  it  haunted  his  coun 
sels.  But  Harlan,  his  voice  cool,  tense,  spoke  of  an 
other  matter : 

"Wiley,  did  you  see  this  from  the  Chicago  papers?" 

Wiley  took  the  review  of  last  week's  opening  of 
The  Girl  and  The  Burglar.  He  stifled  a  shout  of 
amazement.  The  woman  who  had  been  doing  the  lead 
ing  comedy  business  had  been  taken  ill  the  first  night, 
and  a  girl  from  the  chorus,  who  had  understudied  the 
part,  had  played  her  role.  Aurelie ! 

"Saved  the  first  night!"  gasped  Mr.  Curran.  "And 
I've  been  on  the  road  and  never  heard  a  word  of  it !" 

The  grim  young  man  silently  extended  other  clip 
pings.  The  reviewers  were  surprised,  felicitous.  Co 
han  &  Snitz  had  "got  by"  with  a  musical  comedy  that 
had  been  on  its  last  legs  until  the  Chicago  opening. 
And  a  new  face — a  girl  with  a  funny  personality  had 
pulled  it  through.  A  girl  who  sang  and  laughed  with  a 


294  THE    MIDLANDERS 

happy  audacity.  A  refreshing  person  who  had  no  in 
genue  tricks,  no  footlight  mannerisms — nothing  ex 
cept  laughter  and  ignorance  of  convention.  The  re 
viewers  suddenly  recalled  that  this  was  the  newspaper 
beauty-contest  winner  of — let's  see  ?  Was  it  two  years 
ago?  No  one  cared.  Only,  to  that  fact  Cohan  & 
Snitz's  publicity  bureau  seized  as  only  a  drowning  He 
brew  manager  can  seize  on  a  drowning  forty-thousand- 
dollar  show.  They  flung  it  broadside ;  they  screamed  it 
on  every  fence.  The  star  roared  and  resigned.  It  did 
her  no  glory.  Cohan  &  Snitz  would  have  deified  their 
office  boy  if  he  could  have  saved  The  Girl  and  The 
Burglar;  and  here  an  unknown  western  girl  of  their 
chorus  had  all  the  press  with  her,  and  all  the  public  by 
some  happy-go-lucky  verve. 

Mr.  Curran  laid  down  those  clippings  and  wiped  his 
eyes.  "Where  have  I  been?"  he  gasped  again. 
"Asleep!" 

"Read  on,"  demanded  Harlan. 

Aurelie  had  been  interviewed  by  the  Times.  She 
said  she  was  from  Rome,  Iowa,  but  adored  a  bull-pup 
and  lobster  Newburgh.  She  was  interviewed  for  the 
Telegraph — Sunday,  first-page,  supplement,  specially 
posed  photos  and  a  sketch  by  "Max" — and  said  she 
liked  all  the  Johnnies  and  used  their  notes  to  stuff  a 
pillow  for  the  bull-pup.  Next  day,  declared  the  vera 
cious  publicity  bureau,  she  received  eight  pups  from 
eight  millionaires  and  fifty  mash  notes. 

Wiley  laid  down  the  clippings  once  more.  "The  dear 
kid,"  he  murmured.  "Eight  million  pups  and  eight 
million  millionaires — I'd  not  care!"  He  looked  up  to 
meet  Harlan's  eyes.  "And  two  months  ago  she  was 


A    LITTLE    SILVER   CRUCIFIX         295 

living  in  New  York — cooking  oatmeal  over  a  gas-jet! 
She's  a  humdinger !" 

Humdingers  are  not  in  the  Van  Hart  genealogy.  In 
1742,  Ebenezer  Van  Hart  married  Agatha  Ann  Bun 
ker,  indentured  servant.  The  Mrs.  Van  Harts  of  to 
day  never  read  the  paragraph  on  page  twenty-eight 
about  Agatha  Ann,  one-time  humdinger. 

Harlan  broke  out  wrathfully.  "Wiley !  You  rejoice 
at  it!" 

"I  reckon!  The  dear  kid — let  her  go  on  just  joy 
ously  !  All  she's  done !  The  money  she's  sent  back  to 
Lindstrom's  to  pull  'em  all  through !  And  now  she's 
got  Uncle  Mich's  patent  leg  paid  for — at  last.  And 
Uncle  Mich  sent  Peter  in  to  ask  me  to  come  out.  A 
regular  party  to  christen  Mich's  leg — that's  what  Au- 
relie  said  we  must  have — with  flowers  and  laughter 
and  everybody  happy!" 

Young  Mr.  Van  Hart  arose.  It  was  no  use  to  quar 
rel  with  Wiley  when  his  eyes  were  shining  so!  No 
use  to  remind  him  of  congress.  No  use  to  charge  him 
with  making  a  fool  of  himself. 

But  Harlan  shouted  from  the  door.  "Aurelie — you 
got  her  into  this!  And  you  ought  to  know  how  girls 
get  on  in  these  music  shows — the  only  way!  No — "  he 
shouted  on  passionately — "you  don't  love  her — it's  a 
joke !" 

The  editor  stood  up  and  wiped  his  glasses  and  looked 
after  Harlan's  retreating  figure.  "Love  her?  Con 
found  the  boy!"  He  knocked  his  pipe  out  on  the 
desk  edge.  "Hey— O!  If  I  was  twenty-one—"  he 
sighed.  "But  when  I  was  twenty-one  there  was  Janet, 
and  I  went  out  to  see  the  tinsel  world — "  he  sighed 


296  THE    MIDLANDERS 

again.  "And  now  Aurelie  and  her  tinsel  show!  Yet 
I  reckon  I'm  glad  I  am  what  I  am !" 

After  supper  he  went  up  the  bluff  road.  Along  this 
trail  she  had  come  flying  to  him  in  her  despair.  Above 
were  the  hills  in  whose  autumn  glory  she  had  robed 
her  loneliness.  There  the  bleak  field  about  the  Lind- 
strom  cottage  lay.  Out  of  all  this  meagerness  she 
had  come.  And  he  had  lifted  her ! 

Even  Lindstrom,  gaunt  and  silent,  welcoming  him 
from  the  ravening  dogs,  could  not  chill  his  jubilance. 
He  waved  the  papers  toward  Old  Mich.  The  house 
hold  stared  at  him. 

"Hear  this — all  of  you  !"  And  he  began  reading  the 
tale  of  Aurelie's  glory.  Even  John  was  stilled.  Al 
bert's  pale  eyes  shone.  Old  Michigan  waved  his  peg- 
leg. 

"Done  come !"  he  crowed.  "Just  as  Captain  Tinkle- 
toes  and  me  said  it  was !  Aurelie'd  done  occupy  all 
the  lands  and  states  and  countries!  And  I  done  got 
the  new  leg  she's  been  buyin',  Mr.  Wiley.  But  I 
ain't  goin'  to  wear  it.  It's  too  fine  and  shiny,  and  cost 
a  sight  o'  money  fo'  an  ole  whisky  runner  like  rne. 
Wouldn't  get  that  leg  out  in  the  rain  and  mud  fo' 
a  pretty !  So  we  hung  it  up  in  the  parlor." 

"But  Uncle  Mich—" 

"Finest  leg,  I  reckon,  in  this  yere  hull  government ! 
And  yere's  another  man  who  knows  Louisiany  where 
the  birds  they  sing  so  sweet — 'way  down-river  where 
Aurelie  done  come  from !" 

There  was  a  scurry.  Ladeau  was  out  and  beaming 
on  Curran,  terrierwise.  "O1J  Mich" — he  cried — "we 


A    LITTLE    SILVER    CRUCIFIX         297 

struck  up,  talkin'  dem  ol'  days !   And  I  come  offer  my 
legal  knowledge  to  dis  case,  Wiley." 

"Legal  knowledge?"  Curran  had  put  the  unpleas- 
ing  fact  of  Ladeau  away  weeks  ago — and  had  paid  him 
pittances  of  money.  Now  he  was  reminded. 

"I  study  dat  correspondence  school  of  Pittsburgh 
when  I  was  in  Kansas.  Ah,  dat  law — it  hurt  my  healt'. 
So  I  carry  bats  fo'  Rube.  But  dat  law,  I  know  heem. 
I  advise  M'sieu  in  dis  trouble." 

"The  Lord  will  direct  me."  John's  deep  voice  had 
the  majesty  with  which  martyrs  walked  to  the  stake. 
The  iron  was  in  his  soul.  Curran  felt  the  vanity  of  ar 
gument.  But  Ladeau  sniffled  of  some  compromise  he 
was  about  to  make.  He  went  on  with  a  great  harangue 
of  terms  and  rights  and  settlements,  while  the  Dane 
sat  in  his  Cromwellian  faith  in  the  right  and  grimly 
listened.  On  the  table  was  a  shotgun,  and  hanging  on 
the  wall,  a  repeating  rifle.  Outside  his  lean  hounds 
watched  the  road  with  instant  warning  of  approach. 

"But  here's  your  family,  John?  What  can  you  hope, 
if  you  get  into  trouble,  for  them  ?" 

"God  will  answer.  So  I  told  the  sheriff,  Mr.  Curran, 
when  he  came  to  see  me.  'An  eye  for  an  eye,  a  tooth 
for  a  tooth.'  So  I  told  him,  and  he  went  away.  The 
Holiness  Brethren  have  prayed  with  me,  Mr.  Curran, 
and  they  tell  me  God  will  see  my  cause  just." 

Wiley  reasoned  charitably  that  this  was  to  be  ex 
pected  of  a  university  that  had  no  windows  open  to  the 
sunny  side.  "John,  I'd  think  twice — " 

Ladeau  beamed  ingratiatingly.  "I  have  t'ought  for 
M'sieu.  My  legal  knowledge.  T'ree  t'ousand  dollars 


298  THE    MIDLANDERS 

we  demand.  I  stand  by  M'sieu  to  get  hees  right. 
Name  of  God — no  ?  Den  we  fight !" 

Curran  turned  sharply  on  him.  "Now,  you  keep 
still  in  this,  Ladeau !  Grafting  on  John  and  Uncle 
Mich  now,  are  you?" 

The  Cajun  shrugged.  "I  eat.  I  sleep.  Up  in  dat  loft 
with  Uncle  Mich,"  he  sighed,  "and  here  is  dis  room 
unused.  It  wait  fo'  mam'selle  who  run  off  fo'  de 
stage !" 

He  sighed  again  deprecating  such  foolish  sentiment. 
But  Curran  looked  past  him.  It  was  Aurelie's  room. 
Mrs.  Lindstrom  was  by  his  side  at  the  door.  "Not  a 
thing  changed,  sir — just  waiting  for  her."  She  glanced 
at  John.  "My  man,  I  think  he's  sorry.  Aurelie  was 
always  a  good  girl — kind  as  could  be."  Her  toil-weary 
eyes  lightened  meeting  Curran's  own.  The  boys 
crowded  nearer.  Old  Michigan  lifted  his  shaggy  head. 
Albert,  the  pitiful  pedler-agent,  raised  his  glance  from 
the  catalogues  he  was  everlastingly  at.  Even  John  lis 
tened  imperturbably. 

Word  of  Aurelie!  Aurelie  off  in  the  world  doing 
some  sort  of  marvel!  Aurelie,  their  defiant  protector, 
the  red-coated  champion  of  old  days  when  she  fought 
the  town  boys  for  her  ragged  little  foster-brothers ! 
Never  would  one  of  them  forget. 

"Done  comin'  home!"  muttered  Michigan — "some 
day!" 

"And  she  won't  be  stuck-up  either !"  said  Peter.  "She 
wrote  Knute  she  was  goin'  huntin'  with  us  up  Eagle 
Point — when  Nellie's  pups  grew  big !" 

They  looked  in  the  tiny  room.  Spotless,  the  bed  hung 
in  pink  and  white  chintz,  contrasting  with  the  squalor 


A   LITTLE    SILVER   CRUCIFIX         299 

of  the  kitchen  room  without.  Her  love  of  cleanness,  of 
pretty  things ;  her  buoyant  hopefulness  and  nicety 
spoke  in  every  line.  On  the  dresser  was  her  latest  pho 
tograph  in  a  frame  made  of  a  walnut-tree  burl  which 
the  boys  had  found  in  the  slough  and  which  Michigan 
had  dressed  from  its  roughness.  In  a  pitcher  was  a 
spray  of  late  cosmos  which  Mrs.  Lindstrom  had  saved 
from  the  last  frost.  Some  way,  for  Aurelie  they  would 
shyly  bring  whatever  of  sentiment  their  hard  lives 
held.  Unseen,  some  grace  of  love  she  had  left  for  them 
still  hovered.  They  were  waiting — the  little  white  room 
held  the  air  of  a  shrine. 

And  Curran,  who  knew  of  the  clothes  and  food  mys 
teriously  carried  into  this  house,  for  which  Albert's 
piteous  earnings  and  Mich's  illicit  trade  had  never 
sufficed,  since  John  was  crippled,  felt  the  throb  of  their 
love.  It  had  done  more  than  give  food,  it  had  held 
them  up  with  hope,  with  laughter  and  with  joy.  In 
spite  of  all;  and  even  John  no  longer  held  her  the 
devil's  agent.  But  he  would  not  speak  of  her. 

Peter  pulled  open  the  drawer  to  her  dresser.  "Here's 
her  little  rosary,  Mr.  Curran.  We  found  it  under  the 
clapboards,  when  the  dogs  chewed  through  after  a  rab 
bit."  The  boy's  voice  lowered  tragically.  "Paw,  he 
throwed  it  there  the  night  he  made  her  run  off — he  said 
it  was  Catholic!  And  we  hid  it  to  wait  till  she  comes 
home  again,  Mr.  Curran." 

Wiley  took  the  bronzed  chain  and  silver  cross.  A 
crude  and  simple  piece  of  work  such  as  a  child  might 
wear.  But  it  was  the  only  reminder  of  her  vagabond 
life  down-river.  Michigan  touched  it  in  Curran's 
hands. 


300  THE    MIDLANDERS 

"Done  wore  it  'round  her  neck  when  I  stole  her  for 
Old  Man  Captain.  Yes,  sir,  he  done  wanted  a  little 
child  to  lead  'em !" 

Ladeau  slipped  his  oily  fingers  under  the  chain  as 
Wiley  laid  it  back. 

"Eh?  Dat  strange  work,  Mr.  Wiley!"  He  peered 
closer.  "Only  one  man  ever  make  dat.  Frangois  on 
Chartres  Street — look,  he  mark  all  his  silver  so!"  he 
turned  the  crucifix.  On  the  under  side  were  crude  let 
ters.  Ladeau  put  the  trinket  down  and  sighed :  "Eheu ! 
Dat  bisque  I  have  eat  in  dat  ol'  silversmith  shop !"  He 
rubbed  his  stomach — "Dat  bisque — " 

But  they  had  turned  away  to  listen  to  Wiley  Curran. 

"That  crucifix,  Mrs.  Lindstrom  ?  Might  I  take  it  and 
have  it  cleaned  and  send  it  to  Aurelie  ?  For  a  present 
from  all  of  you — with  love  from  all  of  you?  She's 
such  a  great  lady  now !" 

She  looked  at  Uncle  Mich.  His  face  grew  tender. 
"I  reckon.  I  wouldn't  let  anybody  but  you  take  it,  Mr. 
Wiley.  She  loved  that  little  cross  and  chain.  But  you 
— I  reckon  you  can,  Mr.  Wiley!" 

Wiley  turned  back  to  the  table.  The  chain  lay  there. 
But  when  he  lifted  it  the  silver  cross  was  missing.  He 
looked  about ;  then  on  the  floor. 

"It's  gone?  The  crucifix!" 

The  boys  were  searching  in  the  rag-carpet  rugs. 
Curran  looked  about  again,  at  all  of  them — then  at 
Maurice  Ladeau.  He  was  rubbing  his  hands  with  his 
old  slovenly  card-sharp  trick,  and  smiling. 

"Maurice,  it  was  there  when  I  laid  it  down!"  He 
came  nearer.  The  Cajun  shrugged.  "It  was  there 
when  you  picked  it  up." 


A   LITTLE    SILVER   CRUCIFIX         301 

"Merci!  I  been  a  thief  den?  Fo'  a  picayune  bit  of 
silver  ?  I  sho'  never  see  dat !" 

They  looked  about,  under  the  bed  and  the  dresser. 
But  nothing  was  found.  Michigan  stumped  out  and 
crawled  under  the  house  to  make  sure  it  had  not  gone 
through  some  crack. 

"Done  been  curious  I"  He  came  back  and  set  his 
shaggy  brows  hard  on  John  and  then  Ladeau.  "But 
you  take  the  chain,  Mr.  Wiley.  Mebbe  we'll  find  the 
little  cross." 

Curran  was  annoyed.  "I'll  get  a  new  crucifix  put 
on,  Uncle  Mich.  Then  I'll  write  Aurelie.  But  it's 
curious !" 

He  went  home  and,  sitting  in  the  shop,  took  out  the 
chain  to  muse  over  it.  "Done  come  up-river!"  He 
smiled  and  held  it  off  toward  the  light — "God  bless 
you,  Uncle  Mich!  You  and  your  little  girl!  Done 
come  up-river  to  occupy  the  land.  To  find  the  land  of 
joy!" 

And  as  he  stood  up  later,  closing  the  door  to  go  to 
the  cottage,  he  heard  a  roaring  off  to  the  west.  At  first 
faint,  then  growing  as  the  train  sped  through  the  up 
lands'  cut  and  reached  the  Earlville  yards.  In  the 
News  shop  door,  Mr.  Curran  listened,  holding  still  the 
rosary  against  his  cheek  where  her  own  baby  lips  had 
kissed  it. 

Then  with  his  old  fancy  he  waved  it  toward  the  east. 
"Because  you're  there,  Aurelie — just  because  you're 
there!" 

And  a  sudden  impulse  seized  him.  He  was  wont  to 
do  things  on  unconsidered  impulses.  He  had  an  ap 
pointment  with  the  Honorable  T.  P.  Purcell,  his  politi- 


302  THE    MIDLANDERS 

cal  manager,  the  next  day  at  ten  o'clock.  But  he  sud 
denly  growled:  "Congress  be  damned!" 

Then  he  whirled  and  dashed  through  the  shop,  up 
to  his  cottage  and  into  his  bedroom.  Aunt  Abby  was 
snoring,  as  he  crammed  collars  and  brushes  and  ties 
and  slippers  into  a  suit  case,  and  then  dashed  out  again 
and  over  the  fence  with  the  lightness  of  a  boy.  He  for 
got  to  close  the  door.  He  scattered  toilet  articles  from 
High  Street  to  the  Junction.  But  one  thing  he  did  not 
lose  and  that  was  Aurelie's  rosary ! 

And  by  one  of  those  curious  chances  of  destiny 
which  make  or  mar  a  man's  life,  the  Chicago  train  was 
three  minutes  late,  and  he  made  it. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  TINSEL  SHOW 

HE  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  her.  The  posters 
before  the  Cohan  &  Snitz's  syndicate  theater 
were  featuring  her.  The  publicity  bureau  had  spread 
far  upon  the  value  of  that  "$100,000  prize  beauty"  con 
test.  Everything  was  fish,  or  more  properly,  Kosher 
meat  that  came  to  the  net  of  Cohan  &  Snitz. 

"And  to  think,"  murmured  Mr.  Curran  that  morning 
after  breakfast  at  the  Sherman  House,  "that  Vawter, 
the  artist,  and  me  of  the  News  were  at  the  bottom  of 
it!" 

Aurelie  had  made  a  go  of  it,  that  was  certain.  Wiley 
learned  of  her  hotel  at  the  box  office.  It  was  one  that 
startled  him,  for  to  the  sober  Midlands,  it  stood  for  all 
the  city's  opulence ;  to  Wiley  it  was  barbaric,  Byzantine, 
dangerous. 

"What?"  he  muttered,  "has  our  little  Iowa  girl  got 
to  do,  living  at  the  Graystone  ?  How  the  mischief  can 
she  afford  it?" 

For  he  couldn't  free  himself  from  Aurelie's  vaga 
bondage  of  the  rabbit-hunting  days.  She  was  a  many- 
sided  person  who  could  skin  rabbits  or  sing  enticingly 
each  night:  //  /  Were  the  Only  Girl  in  the  World, 
Don't  You  Think  You  Could  Love  Me?  or  some  one 

303 


304  THE    MIDLANDERS 

other  of  those  American  folk-songs  which  the  Hebrews 
write  for  us — and  sell  us.  Wiley  passed  a  whole  win 
dow  pyramided  with  the  great  song-hit,  and  Aurelie's 
picture  was  on  top  of  it. 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned,"  he  said.    "You  kid !" 

He  went  in  and  bought  a  copy  of  //  /  Were  the 
Only  Girl,  etc.  Then  he  ran  across  Jeffries  of  the 
Times,  whom  he  used  to  know  in  Rome,  and  who  en 
vied  Wiley  for  being  his  own  master  and  the  big  frog 
in  the  little  puddle ;  and  Wiley  said,  "That's  so,"  but 
secretly  envied  Jeffries  his  place  in  the  big  puddle  of 
city  newspaperdom. 

Then  Jeffries  said  curiously :  "Saw  you  were  in  pol 
itics  down  in  the  old  town,  Wiley  ?" 

"Sort  of.  The  Delroy  bunch  got  me  to  run  against 
Jim  Hall,  and,  bless  me,  if  I  didn't  beat  his  head  off 
in  the  primary." 

"Thunder — you  in  congress !  Oh,  great  guns, 
Wiley!" 

"That's  what  they  all  say." 

"Is  Thad  unanimous  ?" 

"The  old  skunk  will  knife  me,  but  the  court-house 
ring  is  about  down  and  out,  I  think.  Had  to  put  Har- 
lan  Van  Hart  on  their  ticket  this  fall  to  sort  of  brace  it 
up.  The  people  has  riz  up,  and  let  a  yelp,  Benny,  and 
I'm  on  the  riz  with  'em !  Come  on,  I'll  take  you  to  a 
show  this  afternoon." 

"Ain't  one  in  town  worth  killing." 

"What's  the  matter  with  The  Girl  and  the  Burglar?" 

"Some  more  bunk  handed  us  from  Broadway.  But 
the  girl  in  it  is  all  to  the  good.  She's  peeled  off  a 
three-bagger  with  this  town." 


THE   TINSEL   SHOW  305 

"Sing?"  quavered  Mr.  Curran  palpitatingly. 

"Not  much.    No  one  can  in  these  shows." 

"Act?"  continued  Mr.  Curran,  more  palpitatingly. 

"Not  much.  She  doesn't  have  to.  Nobody  does.  But 
this  girl's  got  the  nerve  and  personality,  and  the  dear 
old  pub.  always  falls  for  that.  She  just  reaches  out 
over  the  lights  and  grabs  'em  with  her  smile." 

"What— "'faltered  Mr.  Curran,  "is  her  name?" 

"Ain't  you  heard?  Aurelie  Lindstrom.  She  came 
out  of  your  corn  belt  somewhere.  First  season  in  big 
business.  Cohan  &  Snitz  took  her  out  of  a  Broadway 
bunch  green  as  grass,  and  the  first  night  here  she  saved 
the  show  by  making  faces.  The  leading  woman  blew 
up  and  quit  right  there." 

"Let's  go !"  cried  Mr.  Curran. 

"Can't.  I'm  on  the  city  hall  to-day.  But  take  it  in, 
she'll  do  to  pass  an  hour  with." 

Mr.  Curran  hurried  away.  He  walked  four  blocks 
and  gazed  into  another  store  front  piled  with  //  / 
Were  the  Only  Girl,  etc.,  "featured  by  Aurelie  Lind 
strom  in  The  Girl  and  the  Burglar,"  and  then  another 
and  another!  And  finally  he  went  to  the  lake  front 
and  gazed  on  the  massive  pile  wherein  she  lived.  He 
had  lost  his  nerve ;  he  was  afraid  to  go  in.  He  forgot 
all  about  congress  and  affairs  of  state.  He  went  to  see 
a  wholesale  paper  house  on  business,  and  took  in  the 
Art  Museum,  resolved  that  he  would  call  on  Aurelie  at 
five.  Then  he  reasoned  that  was  too  close  to  dinner 
and  he'd  probably  bother  her  and  six  or  seven  million 
aires  who'd  be  hanging  around  in  the  portieres ;  so  he 
dined  alone  at  the  Annex  and  drank  a  pint  of  cham 
pagne  as  riotously  as  a  country  editor  can  drink  cham- 


306  THE    MIDLANDERS 

pagne.  After  dinner  it  was  too  late  to  see  her,  so  he 
concluded  it  would  be  best  to  watch  her  act  first  and 
make  up  his  mind  unprejudiced  by  personal  contact. 
By  great  luck  he  got  a  ticket  from  a  speculator,  for  the 
house  was  sold  out.  His  ticket  was  for  the  last  row, 
down-stairs,  but  he  didn't  care ;  it  was  enough  to  be  un 
der  the  same  roof  with  Aurelie ;  the  orchestra  squawk 
ing  and  the  program  boys  hustling  over  his  feet ;  and 
all  about  him  the  dinner-filled  and  waddly  importance 
with  which  people  go  to  shows.  Wiley  had  been  long 
enough  away  from  cities  to  take  a  pleasure  in  watching 
the  mob  crowd  in,  and  hearing  the  rustle  of  their 
gowns  and  hats,  and  smelling  their  perfumes.  The 
esthete's  soul  in  him  drew  away  from  their  lust  of  feed 
and  spectacle,  their  exploiting  banality,  yet  he  knew 
this  repugnance  had  no  place  in  a  politician  and  he  was 
trying  to  be  a  politician. 

Then  the  orchestra  played  that  chirrupy,  zing-zing 
music  with  which  all  musical  comedies  begin,  and  the 
curtain  shot  up  to  discover  that  theatric  novelty  which 
all  good  shows  must  have — the  dilemma  of  the  Rich 
Young  Man.  This  time  he  was  in  disguise  abroad, 
where  he  had  followed  the  Daughter  of  the  Wall 
Street  Operator.  Then  the  German  Innkeeper,  the 
English  Lord,  the  American  Aunt,  the  Chauffeur,  the 
Waiter,  the  girls  in  the  cafe,  the  cablegram,  the  ticker, 
and  all  those  novel  things  for  which  the  American  peo 
ple  pay  two  dollars,  and  at  which  they  laugh  delight 
edly.  There  wasn't  any  burglar,  but  he  wasn't  neces 
sary. 

Mr.  Cur  ran  waited  feverishly.  That  kid,  something 
surely  would  go  wrong  and  spoil  his  delight ! 


THE   TINSEL   SHOW  307 

But — she  came. 

Mr.  Curran  forgot  to  breathe.  She  was  beautiful, 
and  yet  not  so  as  he  had  seen  her  in  the  woods.  But  it 
wasn't  that — out  of  her  abounding  and  fun-loving 
health  came  alternately  a  droll  abandon  and  then  de- 
mureness ;  she  was  apart  from  all  the  professional  peo 
ple  about  her  because  of  the  delight  with  which  she 
romped  through  her  part.  She  hadn't  a  ghost  of  a 
stage  voice,  or  a  stage  look,  or  a  stage  walk  ;  the  people 
were  beginning  to  laugh  when  she  came  on,  and  she 
was  laughing  with  them ;  and  out  of  the  silly  dialogue 
of  the  Rich  Young  Man,  who  delighted  everybody  by 
stealing  the  Chauffeur's  coat,  she  drew  more  two-dollar 
mirth  for  Cohan  &  Snitz. 

"She  can't  act !"  gasped  Mr.  Curran,  horrified.  "It's 
just  only  Aurelie!" 

That  was  it.  Just  Aurelie  enjoying  herself  im 
mensely,  laughing  in  a  wondrous  creation  of  a  gown 
that  wilted  Mr.  Curran  even  to  think  upon.  Then  she 
began  to  sing,  still  in  a  great  good  humor,  that  heart 
throb  of  the  American  people:  If  I  Were  the  Only 
Girl  in  the  World,  Don't  You  Think  You  Could  Love 
Me?  and  the  boys  in  the  gallery  raised  a  tremendous 
racket.  She  had  to  sing  it  four  times  and  each  time 
Mr.  Curran  rocked  and  moaned. 

"She  can't  sing!    Oh,  Aurelie!" 

But  presently,  with  the  uproarious  pleasure  of  all 
these  people,  a  great  rapture  came  to  Wiley  Curran's 
heart.  She  was  just  Aurelie,  yet  magically  she  won  her 
way,  all  health  and  grace  and  honest  gaiety.  That  was 
all  she  had  to  give. 

He  went  out  after  the  act  and  had  a  drink,  the  tears 


308  THE    MIDLANDERS 

in  his  eyes.  "The  kid — the  dear  kid !"  he  murmured, 
and  had  another  drink. 

When  he  got  back  the  stage  was  a  great  splash  of 
color,  girls,  hats,  gowns,  arms,  legs,  imitation  cham 
pagne,  conversation  about  sugar  stock  and  motor-cars ; 
but  Mr.  Curran  waited  impatiently  for  the  comedienne. 
He  couldn't  get  to  his  seat  and  stood  by  the  rail.  But 
when  she  came,  this  time  in  a  dinner  gown  and  opera 
cloak  and  sang  My  Rosebud  Girl — really,  this  time, 
with  a  native  lyric  sweetness — -Wiley  sighed  with  more 
content,  which  may,  after  all,  have  been  the  two  drinks. 
It  was  an  amazing  splendor  and  success,  and  he  looked 
about  in  complacence  that  he  knew  her  and  the  others 
did  not.  And  one  of  those  glances  went  to  the  figure 
of  a  man  standing  near,  which  he  watched  curiously, 
for  it  was  familiar.  Then  he  saw  it  was  Harlan  Van 
Hart.  Harlan,  in  the  gloom  of  the  foyer,  watching  im- 
perturbably.  Before  Wiley  could  move,  the  young 
man's  gaze  shifted.  He  came  directly,  and  without 
surprise,  to  the  other  man. 

"Wiley?" 

"You  here?" 

"You  saw  the  Journal  to-night  ?" 

"No."  He  shrugged  toward  the  stage.   "Of  her?" 

Harlan  motioned  enigmatically.  "Come  with  me.  I 
want  to  show  you.  Although,  I  don't  know  why  I 
should." 

Curran  followed  to  the  cafe.  They  took  a  table. 
Harlan  waved  the  waiter  aside.  "It's  this — "  He  drew 
the  paper  from  his  pocket.  "Why  I  came  here.  By 
God,  to  save  her,  Wiley,  if  it's  true !" 

The  news  article  announced  the  supposed  engage- 


THE   TINSEL   SHOW  309 

ment  of  Aurelie  Lindstrom,  of  the  Cohan  &  Snitz  com 
bination,  to  a  young  man  whom  all  the  West  knew  for 
his  plunging  on  the  Board  of  Trade,  his  motor  rac 
ing,  his  divorce  proceedings  and  his  affairs  with  women 
of  the  underworld. 

"I  presume  you  know  who  Benham  is?" 

Curran's  voice  came  in  a  whisper.  "He  lies!  Ah, 
God,  it's  not  so !" 

"He  dares  publish  it  as  so.  And  I  came  to  see.  I 
came  to  save  her,  and  you — to  amuse  yourself !" 

The  older  man  stared  at  him.  His  hand  came  from 
his  pocket.  "I  came  to  give  her  this.  Her  little 
rosary !" 

Harlan's  eyes  were  on  it.  It  had  lain  upon  her  neck 
all  those  nights  of  his  summer  love  with  her.  "Her 
name,"  he  muttered  on,  "given  as  a  former  chorus 
girl — and  coupled  with  Joe  Benham's  !  It's  horrible !" 

"It's  a  lie!" 

Harlan  sat  back  coolly.  His  gray  eyes  beckoned  the 
waiter.  "I'll  see."  He  was  writing  on  a  tab.  Then,  to 
the  waiter :  "Ring  for  a  messenger.  I'll  send  for  her. 
To  meet  us  here  after  the  performance." 

Curran  watched  him  silently.  Harlan  had  become 
the  man.  The  touch  of  the  Viking  in  his  blond 
strength,  which  Wiley  had  always  admired,  was  up, 
young,  triumphing,  primally  ruthless.  Curran  would 
not  have  dared  send  that  message — curt,  direct,  de 
manding  that  she  come.  He  was  conscious  now  of 
fighting  against  an  obsession  of  the  younger  man's  vic- 
toriousness.  He  would  stop  short  of  the  gambler's 
chance,  the  staking  of  his  all  on  his  confidence  in  his 
own  power. 


3io  THE    MIDLANDERS 

And  in  fifteen  minutes  the  boy  came  back.  She  had 
written  nothing,  she  had  merely  told  him  she  would 
come.  Then  they  waited  an  intolerable  hour,  talking 
vainly  on  matters  of  the  town,  politics  and  business; 
law  and  newspapering.  Wiley  fidgeted ;  Harlan  was 
imperturbably  serene.  The  cafe  filled  with  a  crush  of 
after-theater  feeders,  the  hum  and  motion  became  live 
lier  as  midnight  drew  on.  And  then,  when  they  were 
still  trying  to  entertain  each  other  with  commonplace 
and  constrained  confidence,  none  of  that  old  joy  of 
intercourse  between  them,  there  was  a  stir  behind  their 
table  and  Aurelie  was  there. 

They  were  both  on  their  feet.  Her  amazement  was 
delightful.  She  had  a  hand  to  each  of  them,  crying  out 
distraction ;  she  was  provoked  at  them ;  why  hadn't 
they  come  like  gentlemen  to  await  her  at  the  stage 
door  instead  of  sending  for  her?  She  felt  as  if  she  had 
been  arrested.  Harlan  looked  at  Wiley,  and  Wiley  at 
him.  She  was  puzzled — but  she  had  come ! 

Already  the  cafe  people  were  looking  at  them.  Au 
relie  was  colorful,  aglow  with  small  poses  and  careless 
graces ;  she  smiled  ingenuously  on  them  with  phrases 
of  her  barbarous  French  which,  she  had  not  been  slow 
to  learn,  added  to  her  distinction. 

"I'm  alone.  I  declined  everybody  for  you!"  And 
for  their  lives  neither  man  knew  at  which  she  was 
looking — it  must  be  both. 

"You  had  an  engagement,  Aurelie?"  Wiley  asked 
her. 

"Oh,  just  a  little  one — not  enough  to  matter,  like  the 
Paris  lady's  baby!  I'll  make  them  all  wait — for  you. 


Why  hadn't  they  come  like  gentlemen  instead  of  sending   for  her? 


THE   TINSEL    SHOW  311 

You  know  these  chappy  chaps  I've  got  acquainted  with 
don't  bother  me  much." 

Wiley  looked  at  Harlan.  Plainly  Joe  Benham's  mil 
lions  and  motors  hadn't  dazzled  Aurelie. 

"It's  fine  to  see  you-all."  She  persisted  in  "you-alls", 
and  "I  reckons",  and  "aint's",  when  she  felt  like  them. 
"Just  fine.  I  did  feel  hurt  because  none  of  my  old 
friends  ever  looked  me  up  in  Chicago.  And  me  a  real 
lady  now !  Mr.  Levy  says  they're  going  to  reorganize 
the  New  York  production  and  give  me  a  chance  on 
Broadway — little  old  New  York  where  Ada  Norman 
and  I  nearly  starved  to  death" — she  picked  an  olive 
from  the  dish:  "Oh,  tell  me  how  is  Uncle  Michigan 
and  the  baby?" 

Harlan  didn't  know.  "Fine !"  retorted  Wiley.  "And 
Knute  says  there  were  never  so  many  rabbits  up  on 
Eagle  Point.  He's  waiting  for  you  to  come  back,  and 
he's  training  old  Nellie's  pups  to  trail  'em." 

She  was  filled  with  laughter.  She  had  a  pup  that 
could  beat  Nellie's !  Yes,  sir !  "And  how  is  your  old 
shop,  Mr.  Curran,  and  Aunt  Abby  and  her  Banbury 
tarts ;  and  which  drunk  printer  have  you  got  now — 
Jim  Mims  or  the  Dutch  one?"  She  played  her  part 
before  her  school-day  lover ;  not  for  worlds  would  she 
have  noticed  his  silent  stubbornness.  "Do  you-all  really 
want  me  to  come  back  and  play  in  the  tin  opera-house  ? 
How  big  and  grand  it  used  to  seem !  I  never  went  ex 
cept  way  up  in  the  gallery  with  Knute,  and  I  used  to 
see  you  boys — Mr.  Curran  in  a  front  seat,  for  he  didn't 
have  to  pay  anything;  and  Harlan  always  there  with 
some  of  the  high-school  girls." 


312  THE    MIDLANDERS 

She  sighed  demurely.  "That  was  before  /  went 
to  school !" 

"Aurelie,"    put    in    Harlan    gravely,    "you've    not 

changed  a  bit." 

"I'm  not  going  to  change.  I'm  not  gone  greatly  on 
these  cities.  When  all  these  managers  and  stage  di 
rectors  get  on  their  high  horse  with  me  I  say :  'Oh,  you 
go  to  the  devil — you  don't  impress  me  a  bit !'  And  then 
they  threaten  to  discharge  me  or  something,  and  I  say : 
'Go  ahead — I  can  go  back  to  Rome,  Iowa,  and  play  in 
the  tin  opera-house !  Hen  McFetridge  is  going  to  buy 
it  for  me !'  " 

"You  ever  hear  from  Hen  McFetridge  ?" 

"The  twins  wrote  me  from  San  Francisco.  They've 
made  money  again,  out  of  mineral  water  this  time." 

Harlan  frowned.  Hen  and  Ben  had  not  improved 
Aurelie's  good  name  in  Rome,  Iowa,  by  going  bank 
rupt  backing  her  maiden  stage  tour.  She  rambled  on : 
"Now  tell  me,  who  made  this  up  to  come  in  and  sur 
prise  me  ?" 

They  looked  at  each  other.  "We  met  here  to-night," 
said  Harlan,  "in  the  theater." 

"Indeed?"  She  read  them  a  shrewd  instant.  "And 
do  you  like  the  piece  ?  I  don't.  It's  silly,  Mr.  Curran. 
I  don't  think  so  much  of  the  stage  as  I  did.  It's  all 
graft,  and  unless  a  girl  is  very  lucky  she  won't  get  on 
unless" — Aurelie  paused — "unless  she  has  the  right 
friends.  But  people  have  been  mighty  good  to  me." 

"I  suspect,  Aurelie,"  murmured  Mr.  Curran,  "you 
are  mighty  good  to  them." 

She  gave  Mr.  Curran  a  soulful  enigmatic  glance. 
"That's  why  I  like  you,  Mr.  Curran!  Just  saying 


THE   TINSEL   SHOW  313 

things  like  that!"  She  sighed:  "Harlan  wouldn't!" 
She  looked  at  him  with  long  reproach. 

Harlan  could  not  smile.  He  was  bewilderedly  trying 
to  imagine  where  Aurelie  had  acquired  all  these  man 
ners  and  yet  not  overlaid  her  naturalness.  She  dressed 
beautifully,  yet  with  taste,  even  with  all  her  old  vaga 
bond  love  of  colors.  She  made  them  live  with  health. 
Cohan  &  Snitz  knew  this  impress  on  the  audiences. 
Pretty  things  and  gladness !  But  one  of  the  reviewers 
talked  of  Aurelie  and  the  psychology  of  dress,  and  Au 
relie  shuddered.  Le  bon  Dieu,  did  not  psychology  have 
to  do  with  ghosts  ! 

She  went  on  plaintively  merry:  "Sometimes  I  do 
get  tired.  Ada  Norman  says  I  haven't  enough  talent 
to  go  on  except  my  face.  Just  like  a  lot  of  kids  who've 
come  up  from  the  chorus — pretty  soon  I'll  have  to  de 
pend  on  the  masseurs,  and  grease  paint  won't  make  up 
what  I  lose.  Then  zing!  says  Ada!"  Aurelie  looked 
thoughtfully  at  them  both.  "But  you  know  I  don't 
care.  I'm  going  to  save  my  money,  and  have  a  cun 
ning  little  place  and  some  babies,  and  go  hunting  rab 
bits  sometime  with  Uncle  Mich  in  the  snow!" 

"That  is  a  large  and  brilliant  program,  Aurelie!" 
Mr.  Curran  had  to  laugh.  Harlan's  smile  came  dog 
gedly  at  last.  It  was  hard  to  resist  her  spirits.  She 
was  unspoiled,  but  joy  had  been  set  free !  In  the  hearts 
of  both  men  had  grown  a  miserable  shame  that  they 
had  quarreled  over  Joe  Benham.  The  gilded  youth, 
and  the  blatant  press  for  Aurelie  who  was  thinking  of 
Old  Michigan  and  tracking  rabbits  in  the  snow ! 

She  went  on  stabbing  the  town  and  stage  folk  with 
a  vivacious  and  heedless  wit.  She  asked  of  Rome, 


314  THE    MIDLANDERS 

Iowa.  So  Harlan  was  in  politics?  What  was  he  run 
ning  for?  She  just  couldn't  remember  when  she  told 
the  comedian  whom  she  had  the  "date"  with  to-night. 
She  had  said  her  friend  was  running  for  the  peni 
tentiary!  And  Mon  Dieu,  the  comedian  interpolated 
this  in  his  lines  and  broke  her  all  up  with  laugh 
ing.  And  the  house  didn't  know,  of  course — but  it 
laughed  with  her ! 

Harlan  listened.  A  Van  Hart  chuckled  at  by  a 
comedy  man — and  chucked  into  his  lines  was  exasper 
ating — as  exasperating  as  trying  to  be  stern  with  Au- 
relie!  She  was  bubbling  with  laughter.  "District  at 
torney!  Of  course!  Something  long  and  important! 
I  didn't  mean  the  penitentiary !" 

And  she  almost  had  the  two  men  laughing  with  her 
— almost.  Only  the  desperate  hurt  was  there.  And  not 
for  worlds  would  they  have  mentioned  Joe  Benham. 
Wiley  looked  triumphantly  across  the  table  at  Harlan. 
Right  ?  Of  course  he  was  right. 

"But  why  did  you  come,  Mr.  Curran?  Just  to  see 
me?" 

"To  give  you  this,  Aurelie."  He  drew  out  the  rosary, 
and  her  cry  of  joy,  the  quick  rush  of  tears  to  her  eyes 
was  reward.  She  had  the  lost  trinket  to  her  lips,  to 
the  amazement  of  all  the  after-theater  feeders. 

"The  boys  found  it  behind  the  clapboards  in  your 
little  white  room." 

"Oh,  my  little  white  room !" 

"It's  just  as  you  left  it.  They  keep  it  waiting  for 
you,  Aurelie." 

And  then  she  cried  indeed  amid  the  cafe  feeders. 


THE   TINSEL    SHOW  315 

Wiley  looked  away.  "A  child — just  a  child,  yet,  Har- 
lan,"  he  muttered,  and  the  other  nodded. 

"They  all  love  you.  Even  John.  Your  help  and  gifts 
and  letters — why,  even  sour  old  John  couldn't  get 
around  it  all !" 

"I  loved  him,  too — only  he  was  too  religious  for 
me!" 

Mr.  Curran  pointed  at  the  rosary.  "So  you  are,  Au- 
relie.  Or  thinking  of  Uncle  Mich  and  Peter  and  the 
baby  wouldn't  make  you  cry — among  this  sort  of 
people !  And  this  queer  little  chain  of  yours.  It  must 
have  been  your  mother's — and  I  know  where  it  came 
from." 

Her  eyes  widened.  "My  mother's?  Yes — yes — but 
where?" 

"New  Orleans.  A  crazy  silversmith  on  Chartres 
Street  who  thought  he  was  a  genius.  So  he  marked  all 
his  rosaries  and  never  made  much  else." 

"Why,  I  had  it  when  I  done  come  up-river.  When 
Captain  Tinkletoes  stole  me !  Uncle  Michigan  says  he 
thought  I  was  a  boy  when  they  stole  me !" 

"I  know  Mich's  old  yarn.  But  this  rosary — I  hate 
to  show  you — but — the  cross  is  gone." 

She  looked  quickly  at  him.  He  so  understood  what 
it  would  mean  to  her.  And  Harlan,  watching  the  two, 
saw  what  a  common  piece  of  sentiment  they  were,  the 
same  vagrants  of  soul. 

"I  wouldn't  say  anything  about  it,"  murmured  Au- 
relie,  "only  it  was  my  mother's.  And  it's  dreadful  not 
to  have  a  mother — only  Ada  Norman  and  a  hair 
dresser  !"  She  left  an  arch  sad  smile  with  Mr.  Curran. 


316  THE    MIDLANDERS 

"Sometimes,  I'd  rather  not  be  a  homeless  stray.  But 
I  suppose  people  must  go  rattling  on  in  their  harness 
and  never  do  the  things  they  love.  Sometime,  I  get 
the  old  longing  to  run  off  down-river  with  Uncle  Mich. 
And  take  you,  Mr.  Curran !" 

Then  she  broke  his  enchantment  with  her  laughter. 
"Harlan  looks  as  if  he  thought  we-all  were  perfectly 
crazy !  Well,  I  suppose  one  can't.  Some  chap  is  going 
to  write  a  new  piece — just  for  me.  A  real  star  part. 
I  think  they  call  it  The  Girl  With  the  Pink  Eyebrow/' 
Harlan's  face  set  hard.  That  was  it.  The  Girl  With 
the  Pink  Eyebrow,  or  The  Girl  and  the  Duke,  The 
Girly  Girl,  Half  a  Girl,  More  Than  Girl,  or  some 
other  of  the  pandering  to  this  modern  age,  which  no 
longer  able  to  exult  in  the  rapine  of  cities,  takes 
its  lusts  to  the  orchestra  chairs.  Which  makes  for  a 
"good  run"  as  well  as  art. 

"So,  I  reckon  I'll  keep  on  working,"  Aurelie  was 
saying.  "Some  day  I'll  buy  a  farm  for  Papa  John  and 
lots  of  things.  They've  offered  me  a  contract  for  next 
season  that  scares  me  when  I  think  of  the  old  hungry 
days — those  days  when  I  was  just  Old  Michigan's  girl, 
with  no  name  or  anything." 

They  had  read  of  Aurelie's  salary.  It  was  more  in 
a  week  than  Mr.  Curran  and  his  caterwauling  Rome 
News  made  in  three  months.  Back  home  people 
straightly  refused  to  believe  anything  of  the  sort. 

The  after-theater  feeders  were  leaving,  swishing  and 
waddling  away  with  sidelong  glances  at  this  colorful 
black-eyed  girl  who  sat  between  the  imperturbable 
young  man  and  the  older  eager  one.  Harlan  had 
beckoned  for  the  waiter  and  ordered  a  cab. 


THE   TINSEL   SHOW  317 

"It's  one  o'clock,"  he  said,  "and  you  ought  to  be  at 
your  hotel,  Aurelie." 

She  shrugged  as  if  about  to  rebel,  then  was  silent. 
Some  old  habit  of  obedience  to  him  held  her.  Wiley 
guessed  it.  He  would  have  sat  all  night  watching  this 
miraculous  Aurelie.  He  resented  Harlan's  tone.  When 
she  had  arisen  and  was  busy  with  her  wraps,  each  man 
leveled  a  challenge  at  the  other.  Then,  to  Harlan's  lips 
a  resolute  smile  came.  "I  told  you  she  would  come," 
he  murmured. 

Aurelie  was  approaching.  Never  had  she  looked  so 
humanly  beautiful  as  under  the  garish  lights  of  the 
cafe  vestibule, — never  so  quick  with  feeling,  so  true 
with  life.  Her  world  had  not  spoiled  her — had  not 
touched  the  generous  simplicity  in  her.  When  they 
were  in  the  cab,  whirling  away  to  her  hotel,  she  reached 
from  her  furs  and  patted  Curran's  hand  with  a  happy 
little  sigh. 

"I  do  think  dreams  come  true !  Away  down-river  I 
remember  putting  hyacinths  in  my  hair  and  staring 
down-river  in  the  water.  I  thought  I  was  pretty !  And 
that  came  true !  Just  the  gray  cypress  woods,  and  the 
lilies  floating  to  the  sea,  and  the  mocking-birds  sing 
ing;  and  the  Indian  woman  catching  shrimps  on  a 
stick,  and  Captain  Tinkletoes  telling  war  stories  and 
digging  for  buried  treasure!  But  Uncle  Mich  said 
we'd  go  off  sometimes  and  see  all  the  lands  and  states 
and  countries.  Oh,  something  very  wonderful  must  be 
up  in  those  lands  and  states  and  countries!  And  that 
came  true !  The  land  o'  joy  1  We'll  find  it  sometime, 
won't  we,  Mr.  Curran — people  like  you  and  me !" 

"Find  it!"  he  cried,  "Aurelie,  it's  here!" 


318  THE    MIDLANDERS 

"You  understand,"  she  answered,  and  settled  back 
on  the  cushions  with  another  luxuriant  sigh. 

The  two  men  left  her  at  the  hotel.  She  had  a  curi 
ous,  shy,  studied  sweetness  for  them  both  in  her  part 
ing  that  left  them  silent  as  the  cab  rattled  away  to  the 
railroad  station  through  the  dreary  after-midnight 
streets.  Once,  passing  a  corner  lamp,  Curran  saw 
Harlan's  face  turned  to  him  calm,  hard,  victorious. 

The  elder  man  could  not  repress  his  cry. 

"Damn  you,  Harlan !  You  came  here  doubting  her, 
and  I  never  doubted  her.  She's  good — good — always 
good!" 

"I  know.  Because  she  loved  me  after  all.  That 
held  her  good  through  all  this  life — the  notoriety  and 
glitter — because  she  loves  me,  Wiley!" 

The  other  man  could  not  answer.  His  cry  now  was 
to  his  own  heart.  He  seemed  battling  to  evade  some 
ineffable  self-pathos  that  would  find  its  way.  Harlan 
— always  to  Harlan  life  brought  the  best  without  price, 
without  struggle. 

He  would  say  no  more.  When  they  were  in  the 
smoking-room  of  the  Pullman  they  again  were  silent ; 
and  when  Harlan  had  gone  to  his  berth,  Curran  went 
forward  through  the  train  seeking  an  open  platform. 
He  wanted  the  open,  the  stars  and  freedom — he  must 
have  air.  He  found  an  unclosed  vestibule  and  sat 
staring  out  at  the  night,  the  black  of  the  prairie  Mid 
lands,  with  far  off  the  silken  veil  of  the  city  flung 
luminous  against  the  sky. 

"Ah,  well!"  He  tried  to  reason.  "The  boy— he 
loves  her,  after  all.  And  all  the  years  he's  been  first 
with  me — first  in  everything."  He  could  not  grasp 


THE    TINSEL    SHOW  319 

his  sense  of  fatherhood,  tender,  mystic,  encompassing, 
for  Harlan.  Yet  always  it  had  been  so — this  friend 
ship  that  he  had  held  so  beautiful,  so  true.  Then 
Aurelie  had  come  to  lay  a  finger  laughingly  against 
this  faith.  To  dazzle  him,  to  enrapture  him — to  bring 
the  hurt  to  Harlan's  eyes,  and  inexplicable  rebellion  to 
his  own. 

"Eh,  well — those  children!"  He  arose,  sighing. 
"It's  for  me  to  play  the  man  at  last !  God  bless  them ! 
I  love  'em  both — and  neither  could  understand  how  or 
why.  And  I  can't  either !" 

He  went  back  defying  his  rebellion,  stumbling  to 
grasp  his  old  loyalty,  that  fine  ardor  for  his  friend, 
which  had  made  the  long  years  sweeter.  It  was  hard 
to  define  his  struggle.  A  faint  smile  came  to  his  lips 
at  the  suggestion  that  he  loved — nothing  like  that  was 
a  part  of  him,  he  had  said  long  ago. 

"I'd  tell  Janet,"  he  muttered,  "if  she'd  understand 
—but  she  wouldn't.  Yet  Janet— Janet  knows  me— 
and  understands  'most  everything!"  Then  his  sad 
smile  came  again.  "Janet— after  all,  she's  nearest— 
and  dearest.  But,  somehow,  it  took  Aurelie  to  awaken 
me!" 


CHAPTER  XXII 

NEMESIS 

FROM  that  night  Curran  went  about  his  work  as  if 
a  lamp  lighted  the  way  for  his  feet.  He  amazed 
his  supporters  in  the  concluding  weeks  of  the  cam 
paign.  A  serene,  yet  boyish  joy,  a  confident  step,  a 
brightening  eye,  and  brilliant  daring  in  debates ;  a  sense 
of  power  discovered  and  the  rapture  of  achievement. 

"What's  come  over  him?"  muttered  Arne  Vance  to 
his  sister.  "It  can't  be  just  the  election!  Elected? 
Why,  he'll  roll  up  the  biggest  majority  any  man  ever 
got  in  this  county!  The  Democratic  central  commit 
tee  have  as  good  as  thrown  up  the  fight.  And  the 
Tanner  split  is  a  joke — I'll  bet  Curran  will  even  carry 
the  High  Street  precinct.  Rube  Van  Hart  and  I  went 
all  around  the  Square  offering  three  to  one  on  Curran 
and  couldn't  get  a  bet!" 

Janet  looked  calmly  at  her  brother.  In  his  ardor  of 
the  fight  he  had  not  noticed  her  preoccupation  of  late. 
Steadfast  in  her  work;  resolute  and  untiring  in  her 
counsels  to  the  impetuous  and  ill-controlled  young  men 
who  dominated  the  headquarters  of  the  impecunious 
Progressive  League  over  in  Earlville  and  managed 
Curran's  fight.  "Thad  swears  he'll  resign  the  county 
chairmanship  if  Wiley  wins,"  he  went  on,  "and  that 
means  the  end  of  things !" 

320 


NEMESIS  321 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "the  end  of  things !" 

He  watched  her  curiously,  noting  now  her  weari 
ness.  He  wondered  if  she  had  come  upon  that  story 
of  Ladeau's  which  he  and  Purcell  and  Rube  Van  Hart 
had  so  successfully  kept  stilled.  Wiley  himself  might 
have  told  her.  At  least,  with  all  Janet's  loyalty,  Arne 
discerned  some  unfathomable  negation  in  her  heart. 
He  laid  it  to  her  tiredness ;  the  stress  was  inevitably 
too  much  for  a  woman,  even  for  Janet's  superb  health 
and  iron  vitality.  But  with  a  brother's  constraint  he 
did  not  intimately  question  the  matter. 

He  was  busied  with  plans  for  the  big  meeting  the 
night  before  the  election.  Curran  had  never  spoken  in 
his  home  town.  He  had  always  evaded  it,  and  early  in 
the  campaign  his  managers  had  thought  it  wise.  But 
now,  when  he  had  addressed  the  people  in  every  coun 
try  district,  in  every  town  of  the  constituency — when 
he  had  met  every  issue  and  the  progression  of  his  cause 
had  spelled  his  triumph  everywhere,  McBride,  Purcell, 
the  Vances,  and  all  the  exultant  group  of  young  men  in 
Earlville,  had  insisted  that  they  conclude  the  battle 
in  his  home  spot.  That  battle,  indeed,  was  won;  but 
they  wanted  to  brawl  their  victory  in  the  faces  of  the 
old  county  ring  at  Rome.  Curran  had  assented;  he 
caught  the  fire  of  their  ardor.  And  it  would  be  preg 
nant  for  his  own  soul.  Here,  where  he  had  been  the 
failure,  he  would  sting  them  with  his  success! 

"It  can't  go  wrong,"  exclaimed  Arne,  "not  even  if 
every  mossback  in  this  town  stayed  away.  We'll  take 
care  of  that.  The  Earlville  bunch  will  send  over 
enough  to  pack  that  dinky  opera-house  and  then  we'll 
overflow  on  to  the  court-house  lawn.  Two  bands  and 


322  THE    MIDLANDERS 

red  fire,  and  we'll  burn  up  half  the  sidewalks  on  High 
Street.  Rub  it  in — yell  it  in  their  faces,  damn  'em !" 

The  town  was  talking  of  that  wind-up  meeting  of  the 
Curran  campaign  for  two  weeks.  The  old-line  county 
committee  was  helpless.  Old  Thad  Tanner  might 
curse  impotently  in  his  office ;  but  on  the  street  Curran 
walked  with  the  consciousness  that  men  looked  back 
at  him.  The  transformation  suddenly  became  acute  in 
the  minds  of  his  townsmen ;  the  farmers,  over  their 
Saturday  trading  in  the  stores,  said  that  "all  the  folks 
would  come  in  to  Wiley's  meeting". 

Old  Mowry,  the  undertaker,  with  his  ten  years' 
grievance  against  the  county  crowd  since  they  threw 
him  out  of  the  coroner's  office,  ambled  into  the  Nezvs 
and  sat  where  he  could  stare  at  the  Widow  Steger's — 
always  "waiting". 

"Busted,  Wiley !"  He  cackled :  "Why,  this  mornin' 
even  Dickinson  admitted  they  was  busted!  Some  of 
these  days  there'll  be  a  board  that'll  pay  me  for  that 
nigger  I  buried !  Wiley,  wa'n't  I  always  your  friend  ?" 

Friend?  The  town,  the  county,  the  vast  Midlands 
all  voiced  it. 

He  was  getting  his  mail  the  day  before  election  when 
Cal  Rice,  a  white-faced,  young-old  man,  habitually 
reflecting  the  last  word  of  his  first  wife's  father,  Thad- 
deus  Tanner,  detached  himself  from  a  group  in  the 
post-office  lobby  to  detain  him.  His  pasty  smile  was 
apologetic. 

"How's  prospects,  Wiley?"  The  banker  had  never 
before  had  anything  but  a  grim  nod  for  the  editor. 

"Splendid !"  He  felt  a  throb  of  magnanimous  con 
descension. 


NEMESIS  323 

"I  suppose  you'll  want  to  renew  your  mortgage  on 
the  first?" 

"I  think  not,  Mr.  Rice."  Wiley  smiled  leisurely. 
"The  Merchants'  Bank  of  Earlville  will  take  it  up." 

Rice  looked  up  quickly.  "Ah,  your  friend,  Purcell, 
I  suppose?" 

"I've  a  good  many  friends  over  there.  Well  ac 
quainted  these  days.  So  I'll  take  up  that  mortgage 
when  it's  due.  Eight  hundred  and  forty  dollars,  inter 
est  and  all,  isn't  it?" 

"Something  like  that.  Drop  in  this  morning.  We'll 
look  it  up."  Rice  fidgeted  a  moment.  "There's  an 
other  matter,  Mr.  Curran.  Come  at  eleven." 

Mr.  Curran  drew  out  his  watch  lazily.  He  found 
it  hard  to  conceal  his  triumph.  Cal  Rice  of  the  First 
National  coming  to  him,  wanting  a  conference !  Beaten, 
eh  ?  And  they  knew  it — the  whole  court-house  crowd ! 
They  wanted  to  placate  the  victor,  that  was  it.  In  a 
flash  Wiley  guessed  it — Thad  Tanner  was  going  to 
offer  some  compromise,  plead  for  some  agreement  with 
him — anything,  so  that  Thad  might  retain  control  of 
the  county  committee.  Curran  in  congress  and  solid 
as  he  was  in  the  county  would  dethrone  Thad  from 
his  local  power  "sure  as  shooting  fish  in  a  bucket!" 
All  over  town  they  had  discussed  that  days  ago.  If 
Thad  lost  his  grip  some  mighty  unpleasant  stories  of 
board  contracts  might  come  out.  They  were  gossiped 
about,  had  been  for  years. 

And  now  Curran  thrilled  with  it.  He  had  felt  it 
coming.  He  had  told  Arne,  and  Arne  had  cried 
sourly:  "Kick  the  old  son-of-a-gun  out  of  your  shop 
if  he  ever  comes  to  you !" 


324  THE    MIDLANDERS 

Rice's  next  words  sealed  it.  The  banker  shuffled 
nervously  and  then  went  on:  "Curran,  you've  been 
dead  wrong  about  the  First  National's  attitude  toward 
your  fight.  We're  not — er — against  you — not  at  all 
— not  at  all.  And  er — you'll  come  over  at  eleven?" 

"Hardly,"  Wiley  drawled  with  irritating  amiability. 
"Expecting  a  telegram  from  Governor  Delroy — some 
thing  about  the  campaign."  He  looked  at  his  watch 
again,  conscious  that  every  man  in  the  group  was 
listening  and  in  fifteen  minutes  would  spread  the  re 
port  that  Thad  Tanner  was  going  to  quit  the  fight 
on  Curran.  Then  he  said:  "Make  it  eleven-fifteen, 
Rice.  Best  I  can  do  to-day." 

"Ah,  that  will  dc^-that  will  do !"  Rice  rubbed  his 
palms  and  smiled.  "Thank  you,  Mr.  Curran."  He 
hurried  on  as  if  some  elaborate  program  was  to  be  ar 
ranged  for  Mr.  Curran.  Mr.  Curran  looked  about  the 
group  of  county  politicians.  The  red-necked  Boydston 
was  frowning  evasively.  The  others  were  still.  It 
was  Curraii's  moment  of  triumph.  He  went  leisurely 
down  the  street  with  his  mail.  Mrs.  Van  Hart  was 
driving  into  the  Square.  She  did  not  notice  Curran 
of  the  News,  but  Curran  smiled  airily.  He  could  af 
ford  to  be  complacent  to  High  Street  now.  He  was 
Curran,  the  insurgent  leader  of  the  south  counties ; 
he  had  broken  the  ranks  of  the  Reserve.  He  was 
a  friend  of  the  governor.  Best  of  all,  the  country  folk 
knew  him.  He  was  "their  man".  He  wished  he  could 
see  Janet.  He  would  have  liked  to  tell  her  this. 

At  half-past  eleven — purposely  he  had  kept  Rice 
waiting  fifteen  minutes — he  strolled  over  to  the  bank 
corner.  The  door — a  small  one  at  the  side  used  by 


NEMESIS  325 

the  officers — opened  before  he  touched  it.  He  had  had 
an  impression  that  Rice  had  been  watching  him  from 
the  shade  of  the  window  in  front  and  had  scurried 
back  to  let  him  in.  That  was  another  sense  of  his 
winning.  Even  now  Rice  bowed  and  trotted  ahead 
down  the  gloomy  bank  corridor. 

"This  way,  Mr.  Curran.  Ah,  late?  Not  at  all — 
not  at  all !"  He  opened  the  door  to  his  private  office 
and  the  guest  went  in.  It  was  rather  dark,  but  Cur- 
ran  knew  that  a  number  of  men  were  there.  He 
paused,  surprised  to  see  Ransdell,  the  editor  of  the 
Earlville  Mercury-Journal.  But,  then,  Thad  controlled 
the  Journal.  Boydston,  the  supervisor,  whom  Curran 
had  fought  for  six  years,  was  there.  Judge  Van  Hart 
was  there,  sitting  obviously  ill  at  ease  by  the  door; 
and  Old  Thad,  the  wizened  county  boss,  in  his  swivel 
chair  before  the  bank  directors'  table.  Curran  looked 
them  over  with  a  belying  calm.  They  were  a  rep 
resentative  gathering  of  his  ancient  enemies — men  of 
the  old  regime  in  politics,  in  wealth  and  social  place 
in  the  county.  He  was  received  in  a  silence  that  some 
how  was  slowly  strangling  the  fine  glow  of  confidence 
in  which  he  had  come.  He  felt  himself  intuitively 
brace  as  one  does  to  whom  a  physical  peril  is  immi 
nent.  The  air  was  hostile.  It  breathed  evil ;  the  room 
had  the  menace  of  a  trap. 

Thad  was  cutting  a  cigar  leisurely.  He  did  not  rise 
nor  extend  a  hand.  When  he  spoke  it  was  with  a 
precision  as  one  stating  a  prearranged  program,  a  con 
clusion  to  which  the  others  had  given  assent. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Curran.  We  were  expecting 
you." 


326  THE    MIDLANDERS 

"So  I  imagine." 

Tanner  sat  forward,  his  brows  contracted  over  his 
narrow  eyes.  Then,  in  his  raspish  voice,  with  the 
direct  disregard  of  courtesy  which  always  made  .his 
authority,  with  a  weaker  man,  take  the  aspect  of  bully 
ing,  he  went  on:  "We  sent  for  you,  Curran,  to  ask 
you  to  withdraw  your  candidacy  before  the  people  of 
the  eighteenth  district." 

Curran  appeared  unmoved.  So  swift  had  been  his 
revulsion,  so  sure  was  he  of  a  trap,  that  he  had  steeled 
himself.  He  had  an  instant  struggle  to  speak  with 
the  cool  satire  which  was  all  they  saw. 

"Gentlemen,  you  ask  a  good  deal." 

The  other  stirred.  They  had  expected  amazement, 
at  least. 

Tanner  eyed  the  victim  shrewdly.  "It's  our  duty 
to  ask  a  good  deal.  The  party's  welfare,  the  good 
name  of  our  people — I  may  say  the  purity  of  our 
homes — demand  it.  I  presume  you  know  what  I 
mean." 

Curran  looked  steadily  at  him.  "I  presume,  in  turn, 
that  you  mean  a  story  of  my  early  marriage — a  story 
brought  to  this  town  and  to  your  attention  by  Maurice 
Ladeau?" 

Thad  was  irritated  at  this  cool  pertinacity  and 
frankness.  He  had  boasted  a  moment  before  to  Judge 
Van  Hart  that  he  would  make  the  News  man  cringe 
and  crawl. 

"Yes.  An  incredible  story,  Curran,  an  intolerable 
story !  A  girl  you  deserted — and  without  marriage." 

"There  was  a  marriage." 

"We  have  the  facts.     They  came  to  light  strangely 


NEMESIS  327 

enough.  You  left  this  girl — Adrienne  Le  Gania — in 
New  Orleans  in  1891.  She  died  the  following  year 
during  an  epidemic  of  yellow  fever."  Thad  was  look 
ing  at  a  slip  of  memoranda,  and  with  each  point  he 
tapped  the  table  with  his  pencil,  his  face,  under  the 
light,  pallid,  graven  mercilessly  as  that  of  a  prosecutor 
of  an  inquisition.  He  looked  up  briefly:  "Am  I  right 
in  these  facts  ?" 

"You  are." 

Again  the  group  moved  at  Curran's  quiet  confidence. 
Again  Tanner  leveled  an  eye,  for  the  moment  non 
plussed,  upon  him.  "You  left  her  and  went  to  Mexico. 
She  lived  on  at  an  old  woman's  house — Madame  Ar- 
tois — and  died  there  the  following  year,  leaving  a 
child !" 

The  man  standing  before  them  did  not  move.  His 
eye  was  as  steady  as  Tanner's  own.  But  he  twitched 
inwardly  with  the  shock. 

"You  recall  that?" 

"No.    I  never  knew  of  that — and  it  is  a  lie !" 

He  had  broken  from  his  spell  at  last.  He  started 
forward  with  a  hot  menace. 

Thad  raised  his  hand  deprecatingly,  but  his  grin 
of  triumph  came.  He  had  made  his  boast  good  to 
the  others  that  he  would  crush  the  editor. 

"There  was,"  he  went  on  laconically,  "a  child  born 
on  the  third  day  of  June,  in  a  hospital  on  Rampart 
Street.  We  have  the  name.  The  child  was  baptized 
on  the  first  of  August.  We  have  that  name — the 
name  of  the  priest;  it  was  taken  charge  of  by  an 
institution — we  have  the  name  of  that  institution.  We 
have  the  after  history  of  that  child — we  know  its  iden- 


328  THE    MIDLANDERS 

tity  to-day.  Do  you  follow  me,  Mr.  Curran  ?  Do  you 
believe  me?" 

"No." 

"You  admit  this — marriage?" 

"I  admit  nothing  except  that  my  wife  died  during 
the  yellow  fever  when  people  were  rushing  out  of 
the  city.  I  wrote  to  ask  of  her — to  this  same  Madame 
Artois,  you  mention — yes.  But  I  did  not  desert  her — 
and  there  was  no  child  of  this  union." 

He  spoke  steadily  again.  Judge  Van  Hart  was 
studying  him.  They  all  were  watching.  He  had 
impressed  them.  Even  Old  Thad  nodded  apprecia 
tively.  Then  he  went  on :  "Well,  we  need  not  quarrel 
on  the  issue.  The  point  is  that  we,  as  representatives 
of  the  party,  of  the  honorable  men  and  good  women 
of  the  community — for  the  good  name  of  that  com 
munity — ask  you  to  withdraw  from  the  congressional 
contest.  It  is  not  a  pretty  tale,  Mr.  Curran,  and  we 
have  no  desire  to  spread  it  broadcast.  Our  people, 
you  know  how  they  detest  a  double  life — a  conceal 
ment — a  lapse  in  personal  morality — the  honest  whole 
some  sense  of  decency  in  our  country  people — " 

Wiley  had  raised  a  hand.  "Wait,"  he  retorted, 
"what  if  I  do  not  deny  the  matter?" 

There  was  a  pause.  Ransdell  of  the  Mercury- 
Journal  muttered.  Boydston  glowered.  They  had  been 
gibed  so  often  by  Wiley  Curran  that  they  had  glutted 
their  imaginations  with  the  picture  of  him  dum- 
founded,  crushed  to  earth. 

"Not  deny  the  matter?"    Tanner  looked  up  sharply. 

"No." 

"You  dare  admit  it?" 


NEMESIS  329 

"I  do  not  admit  it.  But,  gentlemen,  I  will  tell  you 
this :  You  have  called  me  in  here  in  secrecy  and  men 
aced  me  with  this  story.  You  have  called  on  me  to 
resign  under  threat  of  this  story.  And  I  tell  you 

—NO  r 

He  stepped  nearer,  his  eyes  flashing.  He  struck 
the  table  before  the  county  chairman's  face. 

"Go  ahead  with  your  story !"  He  whirled  on  Rans- 
dell  of  the  Mercury- Journal:  "I  know  what  you  were 
brought  here  for!  Go  on — spring  that  damned  story 
to-morrow  in  your  sheet — scatter  it  over  the  county ! 
And  you" — he  faced  Boydston — "I've  called  you  a 
thief  for  six  years,  and  you've  never  had  the  nerve 
to  come  to  my  office  and  tell  me  I'm  a  liar!  And 
you,  Cal  Rice — a  poor  dog  who  rattles  his  chain  when 
the  boss  speaks !  And  you,  Judge  Van  Hart,  I'm  sur 
prised  at  you,  a  good  man.  Yes,  a  good  man — the  most 
pitiable  object  in  American  life  to-day — a  good  man 
who  stands  for  other  men's  crookedness.  You  are  all 
a  pack  of  blackmailing  liars !" 

Ransdell  was  on  his  feet  furiously.  Boydston 
growled  hoarsely.  Judge  Van  Hart  arose,  paling  to 
the  lips.  But  quicker  than  all,  Thad  Tanner  was  on 
his  feet  and  between  them. 

"Gentlemen !  Be  still !  This  heat— this  is  uncalled- 
for  !" 

"I  refuse  to  withdraw !  I  call  your  bluff!  I'll  print 
that  story  myself !  The  story  of  my  life — all  of  it — the 
least  of  it.  And  with  that  story  I'll  go  before  the 
people  of  this  district  and  say  that  I  was  summoned 
here  and  blackmailed.  That  you  bought  this  story  of 
a  hound  and  with  it  tried  to  force  me  out  of  public 


330  THE    MIDLANDERS 

life.  You,  who  profess  to  guard  the  morals  of  this 
community  !  I'll  publish  to-day — press  day — my  story. 
It  shall  have  all  your  names — all  your  smug  respect 
able  faces — and  in  it  I  shall  tell  that  you  brought  me 
here  and,  for  a  consideration,  agreed  to  hush  up  this 
villainous  awful  past  of  mine — you,  the  Best  People, 
tried  to  force  and  bribe  me  out  of  politics !  That  shall 
be  my  story." 

Cal  Rice,  of  the  Presbyterian  Church,  muttered. 
Boydston  moved  in  a  jellyfish  way.  Judge  Van  Hart 
hastily  reached  for  his  hat.  "Gentlemen,"  he  gasped, 
"we  were  not  summoned  here  for  this!  I  beg  of 
you" — his  voice  failed  him — "let  me  withdraw — let 
me  withdraw." 

Curran's  grim  smile  was  on  him.  "Your  Honor,  it 
is  no  place  for  you." 

"A  moment."  Thad  rapped  the  table.  "Let  us 
have  this  clear.  You  refuse  to  withdraw?" 

"I  do.  Tell  your  story !  I'll  tell  mine.  Yes,  to-night 
— at  my  meeting — here  among  my  home  people.  Let 
any  man  of  you  arise  to-night  and  accuse  me — I'll  ad 
mit  it !  And  by  God,  I'll  ask  the  people  what  manner  of 
men  you  are.  I'll  appeal  to  them — their  sympathy, 
their  hearts,  their  reason — with  just  a  story  of  my 
youth — a  story  that  might  have  been  any  man's !  The 
people — the  great  honest  heart  of  the  people !" 

Thad  was  smiling  coldly.  But  a  curious  admiration 
was  in  his  eyes.  He  lifted  his  hand.  "Gentlemen, 
he  defies  us!" 

"I  defy  you!" 

The  little  gray  boss  smiled  on.  Cal  Rice  was  wring 
ing  his  hands.  Boydston  was  wriggling  uneasily, 


NEMESIS  331 

red-faced,  frightened.  Judge  Van  Hart  was  already 
in  the  doorway,  lifting  his  hat  with  a  gesture  of 
deprecating  despair. 

"A  moment."  Thad  waved  them  to  the  door.  "I 
shall  ask  you  to  withdraw,  gentlemen.  And  say  noth 
ing  of  this — nothing  whatever.  I  think" — his  voice 
was  now  ingratiatingly  friendly — "that  Mr.  Curran 
will  withdraw.  We  will  discuss  the  matter."  He 
waved  them  on  with  his  subtle  authority.  "Eh,  Judge 
Van  Hart!  I  shall  ask  you  to  remain.  The  rest  of 
you?" — he  smiled  and  rubbed  his  white  hands — "well, 
I  can  assure  you  that  Mr.  Curran  will  withdraw !  He 
will  see  the  wisdom — the  urgent  need — I  assure  you." 

They  stared,  astonished.  The  Earlville  editor  was 
protesting  as  he  arose.  "Mr.  Tanner,  you  assured  me 
the  Mercury-Journal — " 

"The  Journal  will  get  its  scoop.  Mr.  Curran,  even, 
will  agree  to  that." 

The  others  were  leaving.  Wiley  stood  alone  watch 
ing  the  small  figure  under  the  table  light.  At  crises 
there  was  a  sort  of  dignity  about  Thaddeus  Tanner. 
The  indomitable  will,  the  intuitive  reading  of  men,  the 
assumption  of  authority — he  was  worthy  of  his  power. 
Even  Curran  felt  the  little  boss's  way  with  men  as 
this  slow  scrutiny  enveloped  him.  When  he  looked 
at  Thad  after  the  going  of  the  others,  the  mask-like 
face  was  smiling — and  that  smile,  some  way,  struck 
a  curious  fear  to  his  heart. 

His  calm  dry  tone  heightened  the  impression.  "You 
still  refuse  to  resign,  Mr.  Curran?" 

"I  do.  We  will  submit  it  to  the  people.  Their 
good  sense,  their  honesty,  their  charity — " 


332  THE    MIDLANDERS 

The  little  boss  sat  down  across  from  him  and 
sighed.  "Let  us  pass  that  by.  I  admit  admiring  the 
fight  you've  made.  I've  formed  a  different  opinion 
of  you  during  the  last  six  months,  Curran.  And  to 
night — well,  I  don't  mind  saying  that  I  threw  up  the 
sponge.  We  couldn't  beat  you — I've  thought  it  for 
weeks." 

"Well?"  Curran  was  almost  ashamed  of  his  un 
gracious  note. 

"Nevertheless" — the  boss  rubbed  his  thin  hands — 
"you  will  resign." 

"I  told  you  no." 

"Yes— but  you  will." 

The  white  old  hand  was  raised  to  point  at  him.  And 
from  that  instant  Curran  felt  the  ground  slip  beneath 
him.  He  glanced  at  Judge  Van  Hart  standing  pallid, 
oppressed,  by  the  window. 

"I  will  not!"  he  blurted. 

The  little  man  sat  back  easily.  He  selected  a  cigar 
from  his  case  and  lighted  it.  Then  he  stretched  his  legs 
to  reach  a  cushion.  "Let  us  see,  Curran.  Imagine 
the  case.  You  have  guessed  that  we  have  em 
ployed  this  fellow  Ladeau.  I  admit  it.  I  sent  him 
to  New  Orleans.  He  came  back  yesterday  with  the 
fragments  of  your  interesting  history.  More — some 
extraordinary  features  of  the  matter — something  never 
contemplated  by  me.  He  took,  in  fact,  when  he  went 
South,  what  appeared  to  be  a  most  improbable  clue 
to  a  theory  of  his  own.  A  trinket  from  a  child's  neck 
lace." 

"Necklace?"      Curran    stared    wonderingly. 

"I  imagine  a  necklace.    At  any  rate,  this" — and  from 


NEMESIS  333 

the  open  drawer  of  the  table  Thad  held  up  a  silver 
cross. 

The  other  man  did  not  answer.  His  mind  was 
groping  back.  The  silver  cross  hung  under  the  light, 
and  all  about  mists  of  darkness  gathered.  Even 
Thad's  voice  seemed  like  a  distant  bell,  so  swept  away 
was  Curran's  perception  of  time  and  place. 

"A  silver  cross  which  Ladeau  took  to  an  old  silver 
smith  he  knew  in  New  Orleans.  An  eccentric  fellow, 
it  seems,  who,  out  of  vanity,  used  to  keep  an  account 
of  all  the  stuff  he  manufactured.  He  marked  them 
all,  and  from  him  Ladeau  learned  exactly  to  whom 
this  was  sold.  It  was  bought  by  this  Madame  Artois 
and  given  to  your  child." 

Curran  leaped  to  seize  the  thing  under  the  light. 
'Tanner,  what  are  you  getting  at?  By  God,  this  was 
stolen — stolen  by  Ladeau  from  John  Lindstrom's !" 

"Exactly.     It  belonged  to  his  girl — Aurelie !" 

And  still  the  man  before  him  groped  at  the  un 
believable.  His  clutch  about  the  silver  cross  tightened. 
He  stumbled  forward  and,  as  Tanner  stepped  back, 
sank  in  the  boss's  chair. 

"Do  you  believe  me?" 

Curran  did  not  answer.  Then  he  whirled  up.  "No, 
you  lie!  This  cross — what  is  it?  There  might  be  a 
hundred  like  it!" 

Tanner  smiled  again.  He  reached  to  the  desk  but 
ton.  "I  had  arranged  things  with  some  care.  I  did 
not  wish  to  have  this  affair  balk  on  me.  And  there 
was  no  actual  need  of  more  than  you  and  me  to  settle 
it.  So — my  witness !" 

Curran  was  aware  that  the  door  had  opened.     He 


334  THE    MIDLANDERS 

looked  up  to  see  Old  Michigan  there,  his  hat  off,  his 
eyes  staring  wonderingly  out  of  his  white  beard.  He 
stumped  noiselessly  across  Thad  Tanner's  rugs. 

"Mr.  Wiley" — the  old  rebel  turned  hurt  scared  eyes 
upon  his  friend — "I  didn't  want  to  come  hyar,  but 
they  had  me.  The  sheriff  and  the  district  attorney  and 
the  judge — they  could  done  sent  me  to  jail  for  a  hun 
dred  years  on  all  my  whisky  paroles  if  I  hadn't  come. 
But  I'd  a-gone  for  you,  Mr.  Curran,  if  you'd  been 
helped!  But  this  is  truth— and  I'm  glad!" 

"Glad?"  Curran  felt  the  old  rough  hand  closing 
over  his  own,  keeping  his  senses  to  reason.  "Uncle 
Mich !" 

"My  little  girl's  done  found  her  father." 

From  his  chair  the  gray  boss  smiled,  content  that 
the  drama  acted  out  itself  without  word  from  him. 

"Ladeau  done  it,"  went  on  Michigan.  "He  just 
put  it  all  together  when  he  found  that  little  cross  and 
chain.  I  told  him  all  I  knew  of  Aurelie,  just  as  I've 
told  everybody.  And  he  knew  you'd  had  a  child  down 
there.  And  he  knew  this  very  little  cross  was  given  to 
her  by  some  old  woman — and  then  he  took  the  whole 
story  to  Mr.  Tanner,  and  Tanner  sent  him  South,  and 
he  found  the  silversmith — and  it  was  all  true !  Mr. 
Wiley,  the  same  little  girl  I  done  bring  up-river  was  the 
same  one  they  put  in  the  Holy  Family  Asylum — your 
little  girl,  Mr.  Wiley!" 

Still  the  father  had  no  word.  Thad  Tanner  wiped 
his  glasses.  He  sighed ;  it  might  have  been  sym 
pathy  for  the  dumb  man  under  the  light.  Judge  Van 
Hart  had  rested  his  head  upon  his  hand.  Thad  mur 
mured  after  the  pause: 


NEMESIS  335 

"I  think,  my  friends,  the  case  is  proved." 

"I  think,"  whispered  Michigan,  "that  you'll  be  glad 
for  her." 

Glad  for  her !  Curran  reached  out  again  for  Mich's 
hand.  Glad  for  her !  He  had  been  glad  for  her,  and 
she  had  led  him  on,  found  for  him  the  gold  of  ro 
mance — a  man's  work,  a  world  of  achievement,  a 
life — a  soul!  Now  the  phantoms  were  dissolving. 
For  her  he  was  called  to  give  them  up.  Even  through 
his  dark  a  voice  was  calling  his  renunciation. 

"I  think,  Mr.  Curran,  you  will  withdraw.  Your 
daughter,  grown  to  womanhood  here;  her  success, 
her  good  name — everything  points  to  your  resigna 
tion.  Ladeau  is  bought  to  silence.  No  other  soul, 
except  the  persons  in  this  room,  knows  the  real 
facts.  And  we — "  he  glanced  at  Judge  Van  Hart — 
"can  keep  our  counsel.  But  the  price,  Curran,  is  this. 
I  have  had  a  paper  drawn  up — your  announcement 
of  withdrawal.  It  merely  states  that  for  reasons — busi 
ness  and  personal — you  will  not  contest  the  election 
in  the  eighteenth  congressional  district  to-morrow." 

The  man  before  him  muttered.  "The  meeting  .  .  . 
the  ballots  .  .  .  my  name — " 

The  little  boss  shrugged.  "It  does  not  matter.  You 
withdraw — to-night.  It  will  be  telegraphed  to  every 
precinct  in  our  district.  No  word  of  explanation — • 
nothing."  The  voice  was  sounding  out  of  a  measure 
less  pit  to  Curran's  brain.  "Your  daughter,  Curran. 
Not  to  save  yourself,  remember.  But  her,  your  child, 
who  grew  up  beside  you  here  all  unknown." 

The  fumble  of  a  paper  came  to  Curran's  hand.  He 
saw  it  under  the  glare  of  the  light  above  the  table. 


336  THE    MIDLANDERS 

Dizzy  words,  typewritten — he  could  not  tell  of  what. 
Only  he  must  renounce.  The  splendid  structure  of 
his  new  self,  his  worth,  his  power,  his  life,  had  fallen. 
It  was  the  price  of  youth's  adventure.  He  would  pay. 

"The  paper,"  he  muttered ;  and  signed  it  as  a  dying 
man  might  drag  a  pen  across  its  page.  Then  he  sat 
back  staring.  "Thank  God,"  he  whispered,  "not  too 
late — and  she  need  never  know!" 

When  he  arose  they  did  not  know  his  face,  so 
changed  was  it  by  agony.  The  judge  saw  him  cross  the 
street  in  the  sunshine  and  enter  his  office.  There,  the 
printer  and  the  press  boy  saw  him  fumble  among  the 
type  of  his  ancient  fonts,  his  lips  moving  as  he  worked. 
He  dragged  his  steps  nearer  the  printer  presently. 
"Box  this,  Jim — open  the  front-page  form — run  it. 
And  get  the  paper  out  to-night.  I — I'm  going."  His 
gray  lips  whispered. 

He  moved  out  slowly,  and  on  the  corner  in  the  cold 
sunshine  of  the  November  noon  looked  at  letters  of 
flaming  red  on  the  boards  of  the  old  opera-house. 
A  farmer  had  stopped  his  shaggy-bellied  team  to  spell 
the  wording: 

TO-NIGHT!! 
OUR  CONGRESSMAN!!! 

Curran  could  not  make  out  more.  He  crept  about 
the  corner  where  the  side  street  led  to  the  foot  of  the 
bluff.  Creeping,  that  was  the  way  it  seemed,  when  he 
reached  the  trail  to  the  hills. 

Her  hills!  The  hills  of  the  Midlands!  The  place 
of  the  best  men  and  women. 


, 


Thank  God,"  he  whispered, ''  not  too  late — and  she  need  never  know !  " 


M 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  BETTER  PEOPLE 

ANY  men  of  the  county  drove  to  town  early  that 
^  .  _  day.  It  was  the  ever-present  restlessness  of  elec 
tion  eve ;  and  in  this  instance  a  sense  of  new  issues,  of 
unusual  and  dramatic  sequences,  was  in  the  air.  Then 
it  was  to  be  the  night  of  the  "big  Curran  meeting" 
at  the  opera-house,  the  wind-up  with  red  fire  and  the 
band;  and  the  country  people,  with  a  lively  apprecia 
tion  of  the  spectacular,  were  eager  to  hear  the  candi 
date.  "Wiley"  would  make  the  most  of  his  last  chance 
to  scald  the  "county  crowd"  with  his  satire,  that  was 
sure.  All  the  day  the  court-house  was  thronged  with 
farmers,  politicians,  candidates,  standing  about,  smok 
ing,  gossiping.  The  dingy  central  corridor  was  a 
reek  of  tobacco  and  smells. 

Harlan  was  wont  to  pass  here  on  his  way  to  his 
office.  He  had  not  concerned  himself  with  the  elev 
enth-hour  wrangles  and  petty  intrigues,  for  he  had 
no  opposition  in  his  own  fight.  The  "county  crowd 
would  put  young  Van  Hart  over,"  every  one  said,  and 
approved.  The  countrymen  looked  back  at  him  with 
diffident  respect.  When  he  reached  Miss  Vance's  door 
he  saw  her  at  her  desk.  Hemminger,  the  lonely  insur 
gent  board  member  from  the  river  district,  was  there, 

337 


338  THE    MIDLANDERS 

sitting,  awkward,  constrained,  holding  his  hat.  Harlan 
was  waving  his  hand  cheerily  in  passing,  when  Janet 
arrested  him  with  a  gesture.  Her  eyes  had  a  hard 
brightness.  When  the  young  man  came  in  she  bade 
him  close  the  door. 

Then  she  sat  again.  The  hubbub  of  voices  in  the 
hall  was  lessened. 

Janet  motioned  Harlan  to  a  chair.  "We,"  she  began 
quietly,  "have  been  discussing  you.  Mr.  Hemminger 
and  I  have  discussed  you  for  two  weeks." 

Harlan  looked  up  at  Hemminger  with  a  surprised 
smile.  "Indeed !  Now,  I  had  noticed  Hemminger  in 
your  office  a  number  of  times  lately.  What  is  the 
extraordinary  interest  ?" 

She  disregarded  his  easy  banter.  "Harlan,"  she 
went  on  sharply,  "you'll  be  the  next  prosecuting  at 
torney." 

"Without  a  doubt.     On  the  first  of  next  month." 

She  seemed  dwelling  on  the  three  weeks  intervening. 
Then :  "We  are  going  to  confide  in  you  something  that 
we  might  have  said  before ;  only" — her  glance  held  a 
curious  suspicion — "well,  I  thought  we'd  better  wait 
until  after  the  election.  You  owe  your  nomination 
to  Tanner,  the  old  crowd,  and — well,  you'll  pardon 
my  frankness,  but  we  hesitated." 

"Hesitated  ?    What  on  earth  are  you  driving  at  ?" 

Hemminger  smiled  uneasily.  "Wondered  w^here 
you'd  stand,  Mr.  Van  Hart.  Kind  o'  thought  it  would 
put  you  in  bad  to  load  this  on  you." 

He  still  looked  his  wonder  at  Janet.  She  was  un 
locking  the  drawer  of  her  desk.  She  took  out  an 
envelope  and  from  it  a  yellow  and  worn  bit  of  paper. 


THE    BETTER    PEOPLE  339 

"We  shall  demand,"  she  began  decisively,  "that  the 
first  act  of  your  administration  is  to  go  before  the 
grand  jury  and  ask  for  the  indictment  of  Tanner  and 
Dan  Boydston  and  Archie  Curry  for  the  giving  and  the 
accepting  of  bribes  on  the  county  road  contracts  for 
the  last  six  years." 

He  looked  silently  at  her.  Hemminger  shifted  his 
hat  nervously. 

"The  proof,"  Miss  Vance  went  on,  "is  here."  She 
laid  the  yellow  slip  of  memoranda  on  the  desk.  It 
was  covered  with  careless  entries,  figures,  abbrevia 
tions.  To  Harlan  it  meant  nothing.  "This  is  Boyd- 
ston's  writing — Boydston,  the  go-between." 

"Those  old  yarns,"  Harlan  murmured;  then  her 
dominance  stilled  him.  He  looked  again  at  the  paper. 
"You  mean  this  is — proof  ?" 

"This  and  Boydston's  confession." 

"Confession?" 

"It  amounts  to  that.  His  admissions  to  Hemminger, 
his  fellow  board  member,  on  the  way  the  last  deal — 
the  Lindstrom  Pocket  deal — was  put  through.  He  ad 
mitted  he  took  money — he  offered  Hemminger  five 
hundred  dollars  to  keep  silent  on  this/' 

She  tapped  the  paper.  Harlan  stared  at  her  in 
credulously.  "Why,  I  saw  Boydston  coming  from 
the  bank  not  an  hour  ago.  There  was  a  conference 
of  some  sort.  Father  was  there,  and  Tanner  and 
Wiley  Curran.  There  are  rumors  that  Tanner  threw 
up  the  fight,  and  wants  to  make  an  agreement  with 
Wiley  and  his  league  backers  to  keep  their  hands  off 
the  county  committeeship !" 

"Boydston,"  she  retorted  quietly,  "has  confessed,  two 


340  THE    MIDLANDERS 

weeks  ago.  He  dare  not  tell  Tanner.  He  has  been 
begging,  threatening,  pleading  with  Mr.  Hemminger 
to  keep  silence,  and  to  destroy  this" — she  fingered 
the  paper.  "Last  Tuesday  a  week  ago  this  was  placed 
in  my  hands  by  a  mistake.  The  silliest  thing  a  bribe 
taker  ever  did,  and  only  a  bungling  old  farmer  like 
Boydston  could  have  done  it.  I  drove  out  to  the 
Diecks'  place  to  get  a  petition  that  the  people  have 
been  circulating  there  to  divide  their  school  district. 
That  is  the  place  Boydston  sold  to  Diecks  when  he 
moved  to  town.  Well,  this  German  had  charge  of 
this  petition  and  kept  it  in  a  crack  of  the  chimney 
in  Boydston's  old  sitting-room.  When  I  called  for 
the  petition  his  wife — who  can't  read  a  word  of  Eng 
lish — handed  me  an  envelope,  which  I  did  not  look 
at  until  I  came  back  to  town.  Then  when  I  went  to 
file  that  petition  I  didn't  have  it.  Instead,  these  slips 
of  memoranda.  I  couldn't  make  any  sense  of  them. 
But  there  were  computations  of  money  paid,  and  money 
divided,  all  in  Boydston's  handwriting.  I  studied  it 
and  the  dates,  and  it  struck  me  curiously  that  the  dates 
of  the  transactions  tallied  with  several  county  board 
meetings.  And  then  it  dawned  on  me  like  a  lightning 
flash.  I  sent  for  Hemminger,  and  we  compared  the 
notes  with  his  recollections  of  board  transactions. 
Why,  Boydston  had  actually  put  Thad's  name  after 
one  division  of  three  hundred  dollars  between  him 
self  and  Curry !  I  couldn't  believe  such  idiocy.  Then 
Hemminger  took  the  memoranda  to  Boydston  and 
demanded  an  explanation,  and  Boydston  collapsed  in 
his  front  parlor  and  admitted  it.  He  lost  his  nerve 
completely — begged  and  wept  for  Hemminger  not  to 


THE    BETTER    PEOPLE  341 

show  the  memoranda — to  allow  him  to  settle  some 
way  or  other ;  and,  above  all,  not  to  tell  Tanner.  Hem- 
minger  brought  the  notes  back  to  me.  Ever  since  we've 
been  wondering — and  discussing  you!" 

Harlan  met  her  defiant  gaze  steadily.     "Well?" 

"The  county  crowd  put  you  in.  Boydston,  in  his 
frenzy,  declared  it  would  do  us  no  good  to  publish 
the  notes.  He  said  the  new  district  attorney  was 
Tanner's  man!  Said  we  couldn't  get  it  to  the  grand 
jury  without  you." 

The  young  man  turned  his  serious  eyes  on  Hem- 
minger.  "Yes  ?" 

"Harlan,"  put  in  Janet,  "we  decided  to  wait.  I  con 
sulted  no  one.  I  was  afraid  if  we  exposed  it  just 
before  election  it  would  look  like  a  roorback  of  our 
people  and  would  hurt  Wiley  some  way  or  other.  You 
know  to  attack  the  best  families  this  way — with  Tan 
ner's  money  and  power  and  the  Mercury- Journal — 
well,  we  could  not  prove  the  facts  for  weeks,  and 
it  would  look  like  mere  politics  on  our  part.  But  you" 
— she  watched  him  coolly — "I  made  up  my  mind  to 
day  I  wanted  to  know  what  you'd  do  when  you're 
elected." 

"Do?"  He  stared  at  her  with  a  trace  of  anger. 
"Janet,  you  ask  what  I'd  do?  Blow  the  lid  off — send 
Boydston  and  Curry  to  the  pen!  Tanner,  too,  if  I 
can  get  him!" 

She  looked  off  through  the  window  at  the  bank 
corner.  "It  will  be  a  tremendous  job,  Harlan,  you,  a 
new  man — wholly  without  experience  in  office,  bucking 
a  combination  that  no  man  here  ever  dared  to  fight. 
The  money,  the  influence,  the  Best  People." 


342  THE    MIDLANDERS 

He  followed  her  glance  out  to  the  country  folk 
idling  about  the  ancient  sidewalk  of  the  First  National. 
Farther  down  High  Street,  under  the  leafless  maples, 
he  could  see  the  tidy  lawns,  the  prosperous  houses, 
and  then  his  home.  The  judge  was  slowly  driving  in 
from  lunch  behind  Old  Dutch.  So  long  he  watched, 
so  imperturbably,  that  she  could  not  guess  the  struggle 
in  his  mind.  Not  of  right  or  wrong;  but  to  grasp 
issues  dimly  limned  beyond.  One  rights  for  one's  class, 
one's  kind,  one's  heritage  of  thought  and  feeling; 
basic  greed,  the  instinct  to  survive,  vestigial  prompt 
ings  from  feudal  privilege  to  protect  and  exculpate 
— all  battled  in  his  subconsciousness  for  delay  and 
pretext  and  caution. 

Hemminger,  the  pale-eyed  countryman,  shuffled  his 
feet  with  nervous  apprehension.  "I  guess  there  are 
people  out  there" — he  lifted  his  bony  ringer  to  the 
hills — "who  will  be  with  you  in  the  fight.  Better 
people—" 

The  young  man  suddenly  tipped  his  chair  forward 
with  a  smile. 

"I  thank  you  for  the  word,  Bert,"  he  smiled.  He 
reached  for  the  memoranda.  Janet's  eyes  silently  fol 
lowed  him.  Almost  a  trace  of  suspicion  was  in  them 
when  Harlan  placed  the  papers  in  his  inner  pocket. 
He  arose.  "I'm  going  to  see  father.  He's  in  his 
chambers  by  now." 

Janet,  too,  arose  with  a  sharp  protest.  But  before 
she  voiced  it  the  door  burst  open.  A  man  reeled  in, 
drunk,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  even  though  he  came  from 
the  chill  November  street.  Jim  Minis,  the  News 
printer,  stared  wildly  at  them. 


THE    BETTER   PEOPLE  343 

"Where's  he  gone  ?    Where's  Wiley  ?" 

The  printer  staggered  to  Miss  Vance's  desk.  He 
wiped  his  unshaven  chin,  his  bleared  eyes  rolled. 
"What  'a'  you  done  with  him?" 

"What's  the  matter  ?" 

He  spread  a  damp  and  ink-smeared  copy  of  the 
News  before  her.  "There !"  he  wailed,  "he  told  me  to 
run  this  box  on  the  front  page !  /  didn't  read  it !  He 
set  it  up,  he  gave  it  to  me.  Me  and  Aleck  we  run 
the  whole  issue  oil  and  then  started  to  fold  the  mail 
list,  when  I  first  read  it!  I  was  drunk,  that's  it,  or, 
damn  me,  I'd  never  put  the  press  on  it!  No,  sir,  not 
even  if  he  told  me!" 

They  were  staring  at  the  News. 

The  "box"  enclosed  a  bold-face  type  in  the  center 
of  the  sheet:  "For  Personal  and  Business  Reasons, 
Wiley  T.  Curran  Withdraws  From  the  Congressional 
Contest  in  the  Eighteenth  District." 

Nothing  more. 

Janet  was  paling  to  her  lips.  In  the  pause,  Harlan 
seized  the  paper.  "Come !"  he  shouted  and  dashed 
from  the  room.  They  followed  him,  the  tramp  printer 
a  wailing  babbling  rear-guard.  When  he  reached  the 
News  shop  he  came  upon  Miss  Vance  and  Hemminger 
staring  at  the  pile  of  papers  that  made  up  the  weekly 
issue.  Young  Van  Hart  was  searching  feverishly  over 
the  editor's  desk. 

"Not  a  word,"  he  muttered;  "nothing  to  explain. 
Has  he  gone  crazy?" 

"There's  his  big  meeting  to-night,"  Hemminger 
blurted.  "I  hear  the  band  boys  practising.  But  Wiley 
— God  A'mighty !  has  he  gone  wrong  ?" 


344  THE   MIDLANDERS 

Harlan  suddenly  turned  on  them.  "That  confer 
ence!  He  was  called  to  Tanner's  office  this  morning. 
I  know,  for  father  was  there!" 

"They — they" — Janet  controlled  her  voice — "smashed 
him,  Harlan!  Somehow,  with  something!  Drove 
him  out  of  the  fight!" 

The  younger  man  turned  to  Hemminger.  "Bar 
that  door !  Keep  Jim  and  Aleck  here.  And  don't  let 
a  paper  go  out !" 

"Press  time  they'll  somebody  come  'round,"  blub 
bered  Jim.  "Some  old  woman,  or  some  of  the  old 
preachers  whom  he  always  gave  papers  to  for  nothing. 
And  the  kids  to  carry  'em,  and  the  four  o'clock  mail 
to  make!" 

Harlan  was  bolting  the  rear  door.  "Hemminger, 
draw  the  curtains.  Don't  let  a  person  in,  don't  an 
swer  any  questions.  You  don't  know  anything,  re 
member  !" 

Janet  threw  a  blank  sheet  from  the  stock  shelf  over 
the  printed  issues  of  the  News.  Then  she  turned. 
"Harlan,  do  you  think  this  matter  of  Boydston  has 
anything  to  do  with  it?" 

"No."  He  motioned  her  out  the  door.  "Come. 
I'm  going  to  father's  chambers.  There's  no  court 
to-day.  And  I  want  you,  Janet" — he  fixed  his  blue 
eyes  on  her  fiercely.  "Wiley — he  and  I  have  not  been 
friends  of  late — but  this !  If  they  broke  him  unfairly, 
dastardly,  I'll  fight!" 

She  nodded.  She  knew  the  estrangement,  knew  it 
as  she  knew  the  old  rare  love  of  men  between  them. 
She  had  no  time  to  speak  until  she  was  with  Harlan 


THE    BETTER    PEOPLE  345 

again  in  the  court-house,  in  the  judicial  chamber  just 
off  the  hall  of  justice. 

Judge  Van  Hart  was  writing  at  his  table.  He 
glanced  up  with  some  annoyance;  then,  at  sight  of 
his  son,  with  surprise.  At  Janet's  entry  he  arose  with 
his  old-fashioned  courtesy  and  bowed. 

He  had  no  time  for  speech.  Harlan  broke  out  with 
the  wrath  of  a  man  past  reason.  He  towered  above  the 
judge  when  he  reached  the  table. 

"Father,  what  did  they  do  to  Curran?" 

The  judge's  face  flushed  and  set  to  the  impassive 
study  it  wore  upon  the  bench.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
expected  this  from  his  son,  as  if  he  had  dreaded  it. 
But  a  tremor  was  in  his  voice  at  the  other's  menace. 

"Mr.  Curran  has  withdrawn." 

"Yes,  yes!     But  what  did  you  do?" 

"I?  My  son,  I  was  called  into  conference  with 
some  gentlemen.  It — was  a  matter  of  importance — 
party  importance — I  may  say,  of  immense  importance 
to  the  community.  They  wished  me — wanted  repre 
sentative  men  to  witness — " 

"What  did  you  do  to  Wiley?" 

The  judge  controlled  himself  by  an  effort.  "Sit 
down,  Miss  Vance.  I — this — very  unfortunate — pain 
ful—" 

"I  wish  to  know,"  she  said  clearly.  "We  demand 
to  know." 

"You  were  there,  father.    And  he  has  withdrawn." 

A  wan  smile  came  to  the  magistrate.  "Very  good. 
I  assure  you  it  was  voluntary  on  his  part.  Embarras 
sing,  doubtless,  but" — he  tried  to  smile  on  in  Harlan's 


346  THE    MIDLANDERS 

face  and  failed.  "My  boy,  the  truth !  Something  he 
dared  not  face  among  honest  men." 

Janet's  eyes  were  blazing.  "You  accuse  him?  I 
demand  to  know !" 

The  judge  coughed  awkwardly.  "My  dear,  it  is 
something  you,  perhaps,  have  not  heard — this  cam 
paign — the  heat  of  politics" — he  spoke  deprecatingly 
— he  detested  politics.  "If  you  will  withdraw,  I  might 
explain  to  Harlan.  Since  he  demands  it." 

"I  demand  it!"  she  cried.    "I  shall  not  go!" 

"She  shall  not  go,"  said  Harlan.  "Do  you  know 
of  that  old  yarn,  Janet,  that's  been  bandied  about  ?  Of 
Wiley's — marriage  years  ago?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  calmly.  "Heard  and  forgave. 
Only — if  he  had  only  come  to  me  with  it !" 

"Was  that  it,  father?    That!" 

"More  than  that,"  the  judge  sighed.  It  was  a  deli 
cate  affair  to  mention  before  women.  He  had  that 
archaic  idea  of  women  which  could  defend  a  social 
economism  that  sent  them  to  walk  the  street,  but  would 
retreat  at  the  suggestion  that  they  really  walked  upon 
legs. 

He  seated  himself.  "My  boy,  I  do  not  know  how 
to  begin.  The  man  was  sent  for.  He  was  told  that 
he  was  unfit  to  represent  this  sober  and  moral  con 
stituency  at  Washington.  He  was  shown  that  the 
truth  once  out  would  defeat  him  among  our  people, 
even  at  this  late  day." 

"The  truth?"  shouted  Harlan;  "let's  have  the 
truth !" 

"The  gentlemen  discussed  the  affair  with  him.  He 
defied  them.  We  then  proved  to  his  satisfaction  that 


THE    BETTER    PEOPLE  347 

this — marriage — resulted  in  issue.  That  he  had  a 
child,  in  fact — living.  And  here!" 

They  watched  him  ceaselessly.  He  fingered  with 
a  paper-knife,  and  glanced  out  the  window.  It  was 
distressing  to  be  annoyed  by  having  to  tell  the  truth. 
Janet  moved  at  last,  breaking  the  spell  upon  them  all. 

"I  do  not  believe — "  she  muttered,  and  then  looked 
at  the  judge  with  stubborn  courage.  "Well,  then  I 
do!  And  is  that  all?" 

"Another  detail.  This  child  of  his  is  the  girl  whose 
notoriety  has  set  the  town  by  the  ears  for  two  seasons, 
Aurelie  Lindstrom." 

They  did  not  answer.  Then  he  heard  his  son  whis 
per:  "It's  a  lie!"  But  Harlan  had  turned  from  them 
to  the  wall. 

"He  has  admitted  it.  It  was  proven  to  his  own  com 
plete  confession." 

Without  the  window  the  sparrows  twittered,  and  the 
fragmentary  music  of  the  band  practise  came  to  the 
room.  Along  the  street  and  in  the  Square,  the  group 
could  see  the  passing  country  people,  the  teams;  and 
hear  the  moving  of  steps  in  the  court-house  corridor. 

Janet  spoke  again.  Always  her  calmness  prevailed. 
"How  admitted  it?" 

The  judge  shrugged  uneasily.  "You  just  came  to 
tell  me  that  he  had  withdrawn.  Is  that  not  enough? 
W^hat  answer  can  you  demand  more?" 

The  woman  had  arisen.  She  looked  at  her  watch. 
From  the  room  she  could  see  the  News'  front  win 
dows  ;  the  door  shut,  Hemminger's  face  appearing  once 
when  a  lad  demanded  entrance  and  was  refused.  Her 
head  was  aching  with  the  press  of  bewildering  prob- 


348  THE    MIDLANDERS 

lems.  Some  way  out,  some  light,  something  to  break 
the  hopelessness  of  it  all!  She  could  look  down  the 
street  to  the  opera-house,  the  gathering  country  people 
reading  the  bill-boards. 

"Ah,  well  I"  She  turned :  "I  will  have  to  believe  it, 
Judge  Van  Hart !  I  thank  you.  I— I—"  she  stared  at 
Harlan.  He  must  have  sat  without  a  sound.  He  was 
by  the  table,  his  head  resting  on  his  hands.  Something 
like  a  whispered  cry  came  from  him  when  Janet  moved 
toward  the  door.  When  her  fingers  were  on  the  knob, 
his  voice  arrested  her. 

"Don't  go,  Janet!  In  God's  name,  let  me  think! 
Aurelie — Aurelie !" 

The  father  was  staring  at  him  in  his  turn.  It  seemed 
to  the  woman  that  the  judge's  face  was  graying.  He 
reached  to  touch  his  boy's  arm  and  could  not,  his  hand 
dropping  uselessly. 

"My  son,"  he  quavered,  "what  do  you  mean?  Au 
relie  f  His  child — and  you?" 

The  other  man  raised  his  head.  "I  love  her — that  is 
all." 

He  arose  and  faced  them.  "Know  it  now,  all  of 
you !"  His  stubborn  speech  forced  its  way  between  set 
teeth.  "And  Wiley— God  help  Wiley!  I  understand! 
I'm  going  to  him — going — going!" 

He  found  his  hat  and  was  rushing  to  the  door  when 
Janet  stopped  him. 

"Wait!   I  want  you,  Harlan." 

"I'm  going  to  Wiley.  They  beat  him  down  with 
this!  His  life's  ambition,  his  hope — he  renounced  it  all 
for  her!  I  see  that,  Janet!" 

"Yes.  But  here — you  can  save  him !" 


THE    BETTER    PEOPLE  349 

"Save  him?" 

"Does  he  want  the  truth  known?  Do  you  want  it 
known?  You  love  her,  Harlan!" 

He  stopped.  The  judge  raised  his  hand  dispassion 
ately.  Janet  hurried  on  :  "You  can  save  him.  Tanner's 
out  there — I  saw  him  when  I  came  in,  talking  with  the 
sheriff.  In  the  corridor !  Bring  him." 

Harlan  stared.  "I'll  kill  him!"  he  muttered.  Then 
she  saw  a  light  break  on  his  face.  He  was  gone. 

They  stood  face  to  face,  Janet  and  the  magistrate, 
when  Harlan  returned.  They  had  not  spoken.  The 
judge  appeared  unnerved  at  last.  Tanner  put  a  curious 
face  in  the  door.  When  Harlan  closed  it  behind  him, 
he  started  in  a  grinning  trepidation.  The  younger 
man  motioned  him  to  the  table.  He  laid  upon  it  the 
pages  from  Boydston's  slip.  Then  he  turned  to  the 
little  gray  boss  and  quietly,  as  if  beginning  an  address 
to  a  jury,  he  spoke: 

"In  January,  a  year  ago,  you  paid  Dan  Boydston  two 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  to  be  divided  with  Curry  and 
another  supervisor  for  putting  through  the  contract 
you  got  for  building  the  Broad  Creek  bridge.  On  April 
the  second  of  this  year,  you  paid  Boydston  four  hun 
dred  dollars  to  secure  the  road  contracts  in  district 
six — and  in  June  you  paid  him  five  hundred  dollars  to 
award  your  company  the  Sinsinawa  Creek  dam  work. 
And  before  that,"  he  glanced  over  the  slips,  "you  have 
bribed  two,  and  possibly  three,  of  the  board  for  the 
last  seven  years  to  put  road  and  bridge  work  not 
where  the  county  wanted  it,  but  where  it  was  most 
profitable  to  you.  I  am  going  to  bring  all  these  in 
stances  before  the  January  grand  jury." 


350  THE    MIDLANDERS 

The  little  boss  had  stood  hat  in  hand,  his  cigar 
cocked  downward,  listening.  He  never  moved  until 
the  recital  was  done.  Then  with  a  grimace,  he  tilted 
the  cigar.  His  eyes  shifted  to  Janet  Vance. 

"Where  did  you  get  them  facts  ?" 

"Do  they  read  right?" 

"I  ain't  saying  anything.  But  where  did  you  get 
them  figgers  ?" 

"Boydston  confessed." 

The  judge  was  staring.  Tanner  took  a  step  nearer 
on  the  rug.  He  adjusted  his  glasses  critically. 

Harlan's  hand  came  down  on  the  table  before  him. 
"Don't  touch  that  paper !" 

"Young  man,  I  ain't  no  ruffian.  Le'  me  see."  He 
looked  slowly. 

"Boydston's  writing,  isn't  it?" 

"I'm  not  saying.  I'm  not  talking.  Only,"  he  looked 
past  Janet  to  the  judge.  "What  the  hell  do  you  want, 
young  man  ?" 

"I  want  you  to  say !" 

"I  ain't  saying  anything.  You  must  have  gone 
crazy." 

Harlan  was  folding  over  the  notes  in  his  pocket- 
book.  "All  right,  Thad!  Don't!  But  I'll  be  district 
attorney  on  the  first  of  next  month !" 

The  little  boss  took  out  his  cigar.  "Judge,"  he 
grinned,  but  his  lips  were  trembling,  "what  the  hell 
we  got  into!" 

The  judge  suddenly  burst  from  them  with  a  groan. 
"Tanner !  Don't  speak  to  me — don't  look  at  me,  I  tell 
you !" 

The  boss  rubbed  his  chin  and  watched  Harlan.    "I 


THE    BETTER    PEOPLE  351 

never  could  account  for  folks.  For  the  day  before 
election  things  are  moving  into  a  mighty  rumpus! 
Look  at  the  folks  in  town?  I  been  waiting  half  an 
hour  for  the  boy  to  bring  me  a  copy  of  the  News'' 

"And  I,"  retorted  Harlan,  "am  waiting  here  for  the 
paper  you  have  in  your  pocket.  Curran's  signed  with 
drawal." 

"Eh?"  The  boss  fidgeted.  His  eyes  went  to  the 
judge.  "You  told  them  !" 

"I  did.  Tanner,  this  is  damnable!  This  is  an  out 
rage,"  the  judge  turned  on  Harlan.  "My  boy,  you  mis 
understand  me.  I  knew  nothing — know  nothing.  The 
hate  of  this" — he  shivered — "God,  it  is  in  my  blood, 
our  very  blood,  Harlan!  The  dirt,  the  turmoil,  the 
sensationalism  of  it  all." 

"Father,  I  did  not  dream  you  did.  You  brought  me 
up  in  the  reverence  of  the  law — its  spiritual  quality, 
its  invincible  purity.  I  could  not  dream  dishonor  of 
you.  But  you — you  hesitate.  You  stand  still.  It  is  not 
enough  in  a  man — not  enough  in  a  judge.  The  only 
good  is  the  fighting  good." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  want  Curran's  withdrawal.  I  demand  it." 

"He  is  out  of  the  fight.  He  dare  not  speak  to-night ! 
His  own  paper  is  printing  his  resignation !" 

"Give  me  that  resignation,"  Harlan  advanced  on 
Tanner.  "Give  it  to  me — or  I'll  take  it  from  you." 

The  boss  retreated.  He  looked  toward  the  door. 
Janet  was  moving  to  it.  "Keep  off,  damn  you!"  he 
growled. 

Harlan  was  following  him.  Thad's  hand  went  into 
his  coat  pocket.  "Keep  off !  Here  then,  make  a  trade. 


352  THE    MIDLANDERS 

Gi'  me  that  stuff  of  Boydston's,  I  tell  you!  I'll  keep 
my  mouth  shut,  if  you  gi'  me  that  stuff  that  damn  fool 
wrote !" 

"Well !"  Harlan's  grim  smile  came.  The  little  gray 
boss  reached  a  trembling  hand  from  his  pocket.  From 
the  door  Janet  turned.  She  had  torn  the  paper  from 
Tanner,  even  as  Harlan  was  searching  for  his  own. 

"Go!"  she  cried.  "That's  enough.  Those  notes  are 
mine,  Harlan.  You  can't  trade  them !" 

Harlan's  smile  deepened.  With  a  sweep  of  his  hand 
he  hurled  Tanner  against  the  wall.  "You  rat!"  He 
looked  back  to  his  father.  "I  want  you  all  to  listen.  I 
am  going  to  marry  Aurelie  Lindstrom.  I  am  going  to 
prosecute  Boydston  and  Curry  and  Tanner.  And  if 
you" — he  smashed  the  other  man  closer  to  the  floor — 
"if  you  ever  mention — or  if  I  ever  hear  a  word  against 
the  name  of  the  girl  I'm  going  to  marry,  I'll  walk  into 
the  First  National  Bank  and  kill  you.  Is  that  plain?" 

The  little  boss  struggled  to  answer. 

The  judge  laid  a  hand  on  his  son's  arm.  "Harlan! 
Marry  her?  Your  family — your  mother — " 

The  young  man  gave  him  a  brief  attention.  "Very 
good."  He  lifted  the  little  gray  boss  to  his  feet.  "Tan 
ner,  my  father  wouldn't  kill  a  man  under  any  circum 
stances,  would  he?  It's  been  bred  out  of  him,  and  his 
generations  before  him.  But  I've  got  it  back  some 
where  !  If  there's  any  need  at  any  time !" 

He  kicked  the  door  open  and  threw  the  boss  out. 

There  was  some  commotion  in  the  corridor,  so  much 
so  that  Thad's  exit  was  not  noticed.  An  excited  boy 
was  dashing  down  the  hall  calling  for  Marryat,  the 
sheriff. 


THE    BETTER    PEOPLE  353 

He  could  not  find  him,  and  stopped  before  Harlan  at 
the  door. 

"Mr.  Van  Hart,  they  want  you  or  some  officer! 
There  was  a  big  fight  at  the  quarry !  The  contractors' 
dagos  tried  to  sneak  into  Lindstrom's  field  and  start 
work,  and  he  shot  into  'em.  He  killed  three,  and  one's 
the  foreman!" 

At  Harlan's  back  the  judge  was  listening.  The 
young  man  saw  something  out  of  the  window  as  he 
turned.  A  column  of  white  smoke  going  up  from  the 
back  yard  of  the  News'  shop ;  and  a  glimpse  of  Janet's 
gown.  He  just  realized  that  she  had  gone.  And  that, 
for  the  first  time  in  fifty  years,  there  would  be  no  issue 
of  the  Rome  News. 

The  boy  was  pulling  at  his  sleeve  in  a  hysterical  ex 
citement. 

"Hold  on,  I'm  going,  son !"  But  he  turned  again  to 
his  father.  The  judge  was  striving  to  speak. 

"He  said  Lindstrom!  He  said  Lindstrom!  Killed 
the  men !" 

"You  sent  him  down,"  the  son  muttered  briefly.  "I'm 
sorry,  father!" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE   PRICE    IS    PAID 

A^  sunset  Curran  was  far  in  the  hills.  There  was  a 
tiny  hunting  shack  in  the  thick  of  an  oak-scrub 
ridge  where  he  had  often  spent  the  night  in  other  sea 
sons,  with  Harlan  or  Arne,  seeking  the  squirrels  and 
wild  pigeons,  and  now,  unconsciously,  his  steps  led 
thither.  Without  thought,  without  purpose — only  he 
must  be  alone  with  his  crisis  of  defeat ;  he  must  keep 
reason,  he  must  grope  for  the  tatters  life  had  left  him. 
All  the  afternoon  he  had  wandered,  keeping  from 
the  roads,  and  meeting  no  one.  He  had  beheld  the  si 
lent  Midland  country,  the  cloud  patches  chasing  one 
another  over  the  close-cropped  meadows  from  ridge  to 
ridge,  the  valleys  bleak  in  the  November  hush.  Afar 
he  heard  the  farmers  snapping  the  corn  from  the 
frozen  husks,  throwing  it  with  a  rough  cadence  against 
the  bump  boards  of  the  wagons ;  and  now  and  then  he 
saw  the  yellow  piles  among  the  shocked  fodder  and  the 
pumpkin  vines.  Again  he  saw  a  threshing  crew,  the 
red  machine  roaring,  the  flow  of  chaff,  the  glint  of  the 
fork  tines  as  the  pitchers  threw  the  bundles  to  the 
band-cutters ;  the  farm  boys  wallowing  in  the  bright 
straw,  the  girls  coming  out  to  bid  the  hands  to  dinner 
which  the  neighbor  women  had  gathered  to  prepare. 

354 


THE    PRICE   IS    PAID  355 

All  this  fine  hearty  life  seemed  strangely  unreal,  but 
curiously  his  mind  absorbed  itself  in  it.  He  pictured 
the  long  table  in  the  farmhouse,  the  host  welcoming 
the  threshers,  the  discussion  of  the  yield  and  price  with 
the  weighers  and  sack  sewers,  as  the  owner  let  the 
brown  wheat  run  through  his  fingers.  All  this  he  had 
been  giving  up  with  his  new  larger  life ;  this  prosy 
country  friendliness  which  only  this  year  he  had  dis 
covered  and  loved,  and  which  had  made  place  for  him, 
given  him  honor.  And  now,  at  the  moment  of  his  mir 
acle,  the  precious  knowledge  of  their  trust,  and  that  he 
was  equal  to  this  man's  work,  he  had  fallen ;  again,  the 
wanderer,  the  man  without  understanding,  the  poet 
without  song. 

He  turned  from  it  all  with  tear-filled  eyes,  climbing 
higher  in  the  bluffs.  The  leaves  were  new-fallen,  show 
ing  the  far-winding  river,  the  bronze  shields  of  the 
corn  coming  up  to  the  black  muddy  roads  leading  to 
the  town,  first  past  the  modest  homes  of  the  workers 
and  hired  folk,  and  then  to  the  heavy-faced  houses  of 
the  rich.  After  all,  a  pleasant  friendly  town,  coming 
at  last  to  know  him ;  a  wholesome  town  blown  always 
with  odorous  airs,  and  filled  with  the  voices  of  young 
people,  boys  climbing  the  cattle  trails,  sweethearts 
wandering  along  the  pebbly  watercourses  of  Sunday 
afternoons;  or  old  men  and  women  coming  slowly 
along  the  walks  under  the  arching  maples,  speaking 
kindly,  knowing  every  one  and  the  children  of  every 
one. 

From  the  last  high  ridge,  where  the  uplands  began, 
he  could  see  the  great  vistas.  The  smoke  over  the 
mines  and  factories  in  Earlville,  the  Mississippi,  a  band 


356  THE    MIDLANDERS 

of  dull  silver  strung  along  the  hills  of  Illinois;  and 
now,  on  his  home  shore,  far  to  the  north,  a  single  farm 
wagon  toiling  up  the  red  gash  of  a  road  to  the  yellow 
bluff,  then  rattling  on,  a  crawling  speck  at  last,  the 
wrapped  figure  in  the  seat  alone  and  desolate  under  the 
sky,  the  low-pressing  globe  of  gray.  He  thought  it 
might  be  his  friend,  Hemminger,  going  back  to  his 
home  people.  He  would  tell  them  the  news.  He  won 
dered  how  they  would  receive  it ;  if  they  would  not  be 
saddened?  They  would  open  their  weekly  paper,  the 
damp  and  soggy  little  sheet  as  it  came  from  his  old 
press,  and  read  his  announcement.  The  talk  would  go 
about, — some  nameless  blight  that  had  struck  down 
their  champion,  and  only  the  infinite  silence  would  an 
swer.  He  thought  of  the  farmers  driving  homeward 
from  the  rally  that  would  not  take  place,  rough-garbed, 
silent,  in  a  sort  of  awe  of  Thad  Tanner,  the  little  gray 
boss  who  was  on  top  again.  They  would  guess  at  this 
much.  But  Curran  who,  somehow,  had  appealed  to 
their  own  secret  sentiment ;  who  had  come  clearing  an 
obscure  message,  the  fighting  good,  the  newer  ideal  of 
democracy — something  past  the  money  lust  of  the  re 
public — he,  who  had  dreamed  that  out  of  their  gray 
and  honest  lives  he  might  weave  the  colors  of  his  own 
infinite  possibilities — what  would  they  think  of  him  ? 

To-morrow  was  the  election,  and  by  night  the  great 
fight  would  be  won.  They  would  all  win,  Delroy,  the 
militant  governor,  the  junior  senator;  all  the  men  of 
the  North  in  the  brilliant  campaign.  But  he  who  had 
been  of  them,  of  whom  the  home  folk  had  been  proud 
as  he  voiced  their  conscience  against  outworn  theories 
of  wealth  and  privilege,  he  had  fallen.  He  thought  of 


THE    PRICE    IS    PAID  357 

how  they  would  discuss  him  to-morrow  about  the 
polls,  his  useless  name  on  the  ballots — a  man  apart, 
branded  with  a  nameless  stain,  the  eternal  whisper  fol 
lowing  him.  Yes,  he  had  found  bottom  after  the  re- 
surge  of  his  life.  He  had  risen  to  fall.  Love  had 
made  the  way  and  then  defeated  him. 

From  the  high  point  he  saw  a  yellow  scar  and  knew 
it  was  the  quarry,  with  beyond  the  shanties  of  the 
Pocket  squatters.  Up  this  trail  she  had  romped  and 
grown,  his  child,  his  little  girl,  laughing  the  way  of 
her  vulgar  upbringing,  all  unknown  and  uncared  for. 
And  he — he  might  have  done  so  much — he  who  all  his 
thriftless  life  had  needed  the  touch  of  a  hand  in  his ! 

He  tried  to  recall  the  first  time  he  had  seen  her, — 
a  dark-haired  child  in  a  red  dress  going  past  his 
shop  with  the  barelegged  Lindstrom  boys.  Then  a 
schoolgirl,  slim,  with  sharp-eyed  little  Gallic  tricks  and 
poses ;  and  then  the  maid  he  had  come  to  know. 
Moody  at  times,  and  lonely ;  passionate  still  with  eager 
ness  to  live  and  be.  And  thence  on  to  his  miracle — 
laughing  her  way  into  his  dreams,  the  bizarre  romance 
in  his  obscure  struggle,  lifting  him  by  her  kinship  of 
feeling,  of  adventure,  of  follies  and  extravagances.  Oh, 
the  way  they  had  come  unknowing ! — the  two  outcasts 
to  their  triumph ! 

Then  he  bowed  his  head  with  humbleness  at  this 
other  miracle.  With  all  her  droll  playing  with  him, 
her  grateful  fondness  for  him,  he  had  been  the  pure 
in  heart.  The  wonder  of  it !  That  always,  his  passion 
had  been  a  sheltering  and  protecting  one — a  father 
hood,  indeed,  that  defended  her  against  the  town's 
tongues,  that  exulted  in  her  success.  And  once  again 


358  THE    MIDLANDERS 

he  looked  off  to  the  east  and  his  mystic  impulse  came. 
He  kissed  his  fingers  to  the  dun  sky  and  whispered : 
"Because  you're  there,  Aurelie — just  because  you're 
there !" 

At  dark  he  went  to  the  cabin,  and  before  a  tiny  fire 
sat  long.  A  morrow  was  to  be  thought  of — a  sober 
reckoning  to-morrow,  the  long  straight  road.  He 
would  have  to  go,  he  reasoned;  he  was  crushed,  de 
stroyed  here.  And  then  a  flame  of  dogged  courage 
swept  him.  No,  he  would  not  go!  He  had  done  no 
wrong.  Fate  had  struck  him  down,  but  he  accepted. 
He  would  make  his  fight — a  losing  fight,  perhaps — 
with  the  infinite  cruelty  of  ostracism  and  the  jeers  of 
misunderstanding;  the  mutter  of  nameless  things  that 
men  whisper  only  to  their  kind,  always  about  him. 
But  he  would  stay ;  he  would  steel  his  soul  to  it,  with 
some  sort  of  new  patience  and  pride  in  renunciation 
that  none  could  know.  Unless  it  was  best  for  her! 
Then  he  would  go,  gladly  the  wanderer;  silent,  cry 
ing  down  his  fatherhood,  his  lonely  love  for  her.  For 
she  had  best  not  know  he  whispered — never,  never! 
What  need  of  this  burden  on  her  ? 

In  the  dark  he  groped  about  this  circle,  and  nothing 
could  he  find  except  that  what  was  for  her,  he  would 
do.  Nothing  else  would  matter.  Then  he  slept,  as  he 
had  not  dreamed  he  could  sleep,  in  a  child's  peace ;  or 
as  one  who  had  emptied  his  soul,  beholding  a  flame 
burn  it  out  to  purity.  Once,  in  the  night,  he  awakened 
and  found  his  lips  muttering :  "Thank  God !"  and  then 
slept  again  in  his  inexplicable  peace.  Only,  on  this 
consciousness,  there  seemed  to  come  sounds,  faint  and 
far,  like  the  firing  of  a  shot  now  and  then. 


THE    PRICE    IS    PAID  359 

When  dawn  came  he  arose,  hungry  and  stiffened 
with  weariness  and  cold,  but  with  a  cleansed  hunger, 
a  somber  resolve,  a  feeling  of  the  need  of  men.  When 
he  came  out  the  low-pressing  gray  of  the  sky  was  still 
on  the  hills.  He  looked  down  and  saw  a  farm  wagon 
on  the  far  valley  road.  It  came  to  him  that  this  was 
election  day,  and  about  the  polls  the  groups  were 
gathering.  But  on  the  hush  of  the  morning  there  came 
again  sounds  that  he  could  dimly  recall  in  his  dreams — 
gunshots.  Once  they  were  almost  like  a  volley. 

Now,  on  his  descent  to  town,  he  could  see  black 
distant  figures,  men  moving  out  the  road  along  the 
creek. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE   COMMUNAL   LAW 

IT  was  still  very  early  when  Curran  left  the  trail  in 
the  road  back  of  his  cottage  and  came  down  past 
it  to  the  News  shop.  The  housekeeper  was  not  about. 
He  wondered  at  that ;  she  must  be  sleeping  later  than 
usual.  In  the  back  yard  was  a  heap  of  burned  paper 
ash  that  puzzled  him.  He  came  through  the  shop, 
opened  the  front  door  and  looked  out. 

The  Square  was  deserted.  One  or  two  clerks  were 
setting  out  the  vegetable  crates  and  displays,  but 
around  the  hitching-rail  there  was  not  a  team,  nor  all 
down  High  Street  a  human  being.  Curran  was  sur 
prised — it  must  still  be  very  early. 

Then  about  the  corner  by  the  bank  a  stiffened  lame 
old  figure  crept.  Curran  regarded  Uncle  Michigan  in 
surprise.  His  eyes  had  the  look  of  a  hunted  animal, 
staring  above  his  shaggy  beard. 

"Mr.  Wiley!" 

"Uncle  Mich !" 

"I'm  goin'  to  the  station  to  meet  her,  Mr.  Wiley.  I 
telegraphed  last  night,  and  she'll  done  come  to  save 
Knute  and  Peter  and  the  baby !" 

"Save  them?   Mich!" 

"They  done  give  John  three  hours  more.    Then  if 

360 


THE    COMMUNAL   LAW  361 

he  don't  surrender  they'll  charge  the  house  and  riddle 
it !  And  John  he  won't  let  the  children  come  out — or 
any  one.  He  says  the  Lord  is  wi'  the  right !" 

Curran  was  staring  in  his  turn.  "Mich!  What  is 
it?" 

The  old  soldier  looked  at  him  with  a  remembrance. 
"I  forgot,  Mr.  Wiley!  Where  you  ben?  Folks  were 
askin'  fo'  you — they  said  if  ary  man  in  the  county 
could  talk  reason  to  John,  it's  you !" 

"Look  here — has  there  been  any  trouble — any  fight 
ing?" 

"Fight !  Where  have  you  been !  Started  last  evening. 
Why,  it  done  break  up  your  meetin',  didn't  it!  The 
whole  county  just  poured  out  there.  They  had  a  time 
getting  the  bodies  dragged  off — worked  all  night,  and 
two  more  deputies  were  shot  at  midnight;  and  then 
this  morning  the  folks  got  Marryat  to  go  try  another 
parley  with  John — and  he  killed  the  sheriff,  Mr. 
Wiley !" 

The  editor  clenched  his  hands.  "I  heard — I  know, 
now !" 

"The  posse  is  all  around  the  place.  I  sneaked  away 
at  dark  and  come  to  town  to  telegraph  Aurelie.  The 
deputies  are  keeping  the  crowd  back  to  the  creek  road. 
Everybody's  there — all  the  town  folks  and  the  farmers 
that  drove  in  to  hear  you.  God  A'mighty,  what  a' 
election  day!  They  ain't  a  man  thought  of  it  yet! 
Five  of  'em  been  killed,  Mr.  Wiley,  and  the  sheriff's 
body  is  lying  there  yet.  John's  fired  at  every  one  who 
shows  himself." 

"And  they've  fired  at  the  house !" 

"Yes.    Mebbe  killed  some  o'  the  boys.    John's  got  it 


362  THE    MIDLANDERS 

all  barricaded.  He  can  fight  from  any  window — and 
they  got  to  cross  that  field  where  he  can  drop  any  one." 

Curran  was  hurrying  with  him.  The  shock  of  the 
matter  had  driven  every  thought  of  himself  from  his 
mind.  They  passed  a  man  or  two  who  hardly  looked 
at  them.  Curran  could  not  tell  whether  it -was  the 
palsy  of  the  tragedy,  or  the  contempt  in  which  they 
must  hold  him  to-day  when  all  the  state  would  be 
ringing  with  his  downfall. 

When  they  reached  the  Junction,  a  crowd  was  wait 
ing  for  the  train.  He  heard  snatches  of  the  talk.  Men 
were  gaunt  and  hollow-eyed.  "Heard  somebody'd 
wired  the  governor  to  send  militia.  .  .  .  No,  they 
ain't  coming — Mr.  Van  Hart  says  it  would  be  a  dis 
grace  if  the  county  can't  handle  this  affair.  Folks  say 
the  governor  ain't  his  politics — and  he  wouldn't  call 
on  him  if  half  the  county  was  killed.  .  .  .  Marryat 
was  a  fool  to  try  to  draw  up  on  the  house  when  John 
had  just  told  him  to  stay  off.  And  District  Attorney 
Jewett  threw  up  his  hands — said  he  was  going  out  of 
office,  and  he  wasn't  going  to  monkey  with  it.  So  they 
all  went  to  young  Van  Hart — he's  in  charge  of  it !" 

The  two,  watching  for  the  nine  o'clock  train  from 
Chicago  to  draw  out  of  the  creek  cut,  heard  this  end 
less  babble.  Teams  drove  by  on  their  way  to  the 
quarry.  Women  were  crying.  The  "local"  from  Earl- 
ville  brought  four  correspondents  of  mid-west  papers 
who  were  being  hounded  for  "follow"  stories.  The  af 
fair  had  already  been  flashed  nation-wide.  Last  night's 
battle  was  in  all  the  Chicago  papers  which  got  early 
editions  to  the  river  towns  at  daylight.  It  was  a  sen 
sation — this  story  of  a  one-armed  outlaw,  crazed 


THE   COMMUNAL   LAW  363 

with  religious  brooding,  driven  to  desperation  by  his 
wrong  of  the  law,  fortifying  his  cabin  and  defying  the 
community  to  take  him.  Five  men  dead  and  eight 
wounded ;  the  shanty  riddled'  again  and  again,  but  the 
defender  unhurt,  and  refusing  all  parley,  all  demands 
to  surrender.  The  news  shot  through  the  staid  and 
sober  Midland  counties  like  a  drama  from  the  ancient 
and  lawless  West;  it  wrested  attention  even  from  the 
momentous  election. 

Curran  listened  to  Michigan's  bewildered  recital, 
and  to  the  fragments  of  talk.  The  throng  grew.  Some 
said  two  companies  of  militia  were  coming;  that  the 
hastily  summoned  county  deputies  were  hopelessly  in 
efficient,  scared,  "bluffed"  out  by  Lindstrom's  merci 
less  shooting  and  the  number  of  the  dead. 

"Nobody  wants  to  tackle  him,"  said  a  breathless 
clerk  from  the  Hub  Clothing  Store.  "Some  of  the  boys 
thought  they  could  sneak  around  in  the  timber  and  get 
a  shot  at  him  close,  and  he  wounded  three  of  them 
before  they  could  lift  a  finger !" 

"And  they  could  hear  a  woman  crying  in  the  house. 
And  a  boy— must  be  that  little  Dane  kid,  Peter !" 

Old  Michigan  was  fearsomely  listening.  "If  she 
comes,"  he  breathed,  "to  save  Peter  and  the  baby !" 

"They  won't  fire  the  house,  Mich." 

"They  will!  Young  Mr.  Van  Hart  said  they  will. 
He  give  'em  a  chance  to  surrender — he's  give  'em 
three  chances  to  surrender — and  John  won't  hear  of  it. 
And  Mr.  Harlan  said  not  an  hour  ago,  there'd  be  one 
more  chance !  Then  he'll  charge  that  place  if  fifty  men 
are  killed.  The  law,  Mr.  Wiley — he  says  it'll  be  up 
held  at  all  costs,  no  difference  who  is  hurt !" 


364  THE    MIDLANDERS 

"Harlan,"  muttered  Wiley,  "I— I— wish  I  could  see 
him.  Beg  him — ah,  well!"  he  stared  at  the  depot 
crowd.  He  was  thinking  of  that  dogged  and  invincible 
quality  he  had  seen  grow  in  Harlan.  He  knew.  He 
had  felt  its  power — under  all  else  lay  this  Viking  ruth- 
lessness.  Yes,  if  it  lay  with  Harlan,  he  would  not  hesi 
tate.  The  way  of  peace  with  him  was  the  law  vindi 
cated. 

But  it  was  curious,  in  all  the  turmoil,  that  no  one 
noticed  him — the  obsession  of  the  tragedy  must  have 
obscured  even  the  sensation  of  his  downfall.  He  tried 
to  buy  a  paper  but  none  was  to  be  had.  Through  all 
the  complaints  and  recriminations,  denunciation  of  the 
county  officers  for  not  doing  something,  he  became 
aware  of  this  amazement  that  no  one  questioned  him. 
He  met  Mowry,  the  undertaker,  in  his  long  black  coat 
and  string  tie,  and  Mowry  had  no  thought  except  a 
grievance  of  his  own.  The  Widow  Steger  had  passed, 
and — just  his  luck — passed  in  the  hospital  at  Burling 
ton  where  her  son-in-law  had  embalmed  her.  And  here 
Mowry  had  been  buying  his  groceries  of  Dickinson  for 
nine  years  in  expectation  of  getting  the  widow. 

"Dog-gone  it,  Wiley,  this  is  a  sorehead  town!  It's 
irritatin'  when  folks  won't  patronize  home  industries. 
I'm  going  out  to  Californy  where  Hen  and  Ben  are 
bottlin'  mineral  water.  They  say  there  is  a  great  open- 
in'  for  an  undertaker  in  their  town — if  they  ever  get 
their  mineral  water  to  sellin'." 

But  nothing  about  Curran's  withdrawal.  From  this 
riddle  his  tired  brain  revolved  to  Aurelie's  coming. 
How  should  he  meet  her — what  word  say  of  his  down 
fall?  His  soul  was  crying  to  her  out  of  the  dawn  of 


THE   COMMUNAL   LAW  365 

peace  the  night  had  given  him.  He  had  ac 
cepted,  he  had  renounced — but  he  feared  his  self- 
control  when  she  would  look  in  his  eyes  with  her  pretty 
fondness,  her  laughing  trust.  His  little  girl,  and  his 
heart  was  big  with  the  new  fatherhood!  And  with  it 
all  came  the  old  mutter  to  his  dry  lips :  "She  must  not 
know — she  must  not  know !  That,  too,  dear  God,  I  can 
accept !" 

There  was  another  excited  rumor.  The  crowd 
swayed  and  buzzed — another  deputy  was  wounded  out 
at  the  quarry.  And  the  officers  were  righting  the  un 
manageable  spectators,  helpless,  without  leadership. 
Van  Hart  had  knocked  a  man  down  when  he  found 
him  selling  whisky  to  his  posse.  He  had  ordered  four 
more  jailed  for  disobedience  in  crossing  the  dead-line. 
He  was  battling  for  order,  for  law — and  he  was  not 
even  yet  in  office.  But  the  old  dry-bones  of  county 
officialdom  were  helpless — they  had  begged  the  judge 
to  send  his  son  out  to  the  siege. 

Above  all  this  gossip  Curran  saw  Janet  Vance's 
serene  face.  She  was  in  a  touring  car  which  Arne 
drove  to  the  depot.  Wiley  stared  at  the  legend  on  its 
side :  "Curran  For  Congress !  Vote  to-day ! ! !"  The 
Vances  did  not  see  him  until  he  placed  his  hand  on  the 
car,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  banner. 

"Janet !"  His  voice  died.  "Take  this  off !  Don't  you 
know  ?" 

Her  face  lit  with  joy.  "Wiley !  But  this  is  terrible. 
The  community  never  passed  such  a  night.  And  never 
such  a  day.  Arne  is  swearing  mad — there  isn't  a  voter 
at  the  booth  in  your  precinct — the  town's  emptied  it 
self  out  there." 


366  THE    MIDLANDERS 

He  followed  her  gesture  to  the  hills.  "I  didn't  mean 
that,  Janet!  I  mean — well,  didn't  you  see  the  News 
last  night?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  clearly — and  smiled.  He  stared 
wildly  at  her.  "And  my  meeting?  I — wasn't  there!'' 

"Neither  was  any  one  else !  Some  people  gathered, 
and  the  committee  waited.  Then  Purcell  announced  it 
was  off.  He  said  you  must  be  out  in  the  crowd  around 
Lindstrom's.  Anyhow,  it  didn't  make  any  difference  to 
any  one." 

"But,  Janet !   I — I — you  know  ?  You  must  know — " 

And  then  her  hand  closed  over  his  on  the  seat. 
"Hush !"  she  whispered,  "I  know.  And  no  one  else !" 

And  while  he  stared  again  at  her,  unable  to  make  it 
out,  Arne  arose  from  cranking  his  car.  "Get  in  there, 
Wiley!  They  want  you — they  been  asking  for  you! 
Where  the  devil  did  you  disappear  to  last  night  ?  But 
the  whole  campaign  went  in  the  air  when  Lindstrom 
cut  loose  with  his  gun !" 

They  had  him  whirling  out  the  road  with  Arne  con 
tinuing  his  imprecations  on  the  misfortune.  Michigan 
was  with  them — they  promised  to  be  back  for  the  be 
lated  train.  "Some  of  the  town  women  and  the  minis 
ters  want  you  to  get  to  Harlan,"  shouted  Arne,  "and 
ask  him,  for  God's  sake,  to  get  the  children  out  before 
he  attacks  John's  house.  The  whole  thing  fell  on  Har 
lan,  somehow.  Old  Jellybelly  Jewett  blew  up  after  the 
sheriff  was  killed.  The  citizens  said  somebody  had  to 
take  charge  of  the  posse — it  was  demoralized.  They 
put  it  up  to  Harlan,  and  he's  righting  some  order  out 
of  the  mob !" 

They  came  upon  the   blond -headed  young  man  who, 


THE   COMMUNAL   LAW  367 

in  a  night,  had  come  to  have  authority  in  his  manner — 
that  tacit  authority  past  all  trappings  of  office  which 
men  acknowledge  in  crises.  He  stood  by  the  road  a 
hundred  yards  outside  the  Lindstrom  fence.  All  along 
this  fence,  and  stretching  into  the  woods,  was  the 
hastily  summoned  posse,  armed  with  shotguns,  rifles, 
revolvers — with  all  the  mob-inefficiency  of  a  commu 
nity  unused  to  the  issues  of  force.  Among  the 
woods  and  on  the  bridge  across  Sinsinawa  Creek, 
and  all  along  the  way  to  town,  were  buggies,  motor 
cars,  horsemen,  pedestrians,  coming  out  and  strag 
gling  back.  The  coroner's  men  had  been  there,  and  all 
evidences  of  Lindstrom's  bloody  work  had  been  re 
moved.  In  the  fence  corners,  fires  were  going;  the 
deputies,  chilled  from  the  all-night  vigil,  were  making 
coffee.  Newsboys  from  Earlville  were  now  going 
among  the  crowds  crying  papers;  and  these  and  the 
deputies  eating  and  some  laughing  nervously  with  one 
another,  gave  the  affair  the  aspect  of  a  huge  grotesque 
picnic.  They  hurled  quips  at  one  another's  courage,  and 
taunts  to  the  embryo  war  correspondents  who  hurried 
back  to  the  telegraph  offices,  and  then  came  on  to  ques 
tion  leading  citizens,  and  to  badger  Harlan  Van  Hart, 
the  prospective  district  attorney,  who  seemed  in  con 
trol.  Murmurs  were  heard.  Why  wasn't  something 
done  ?  Who  fired  the  last  shot  ?  It  was  getting  ridicu 
lous,  this  waiting  and  arguing  and  considering.  The 
Chicago  newspaper  men,  who  just  arrived,  were  laugh 
ing  over  the  blundering  and  inefficiency.  Some  of  the 
deputies  had  secured  whisky  and  were  already  drunk. 
Arne  Vance's  machine  reached  Harlan  just  as  this 
word  was  brought.  Curran  saw  his  eye  set  coldly ;  he 


368  THE    MIDLANDERS 

was  glancing  along  his  disorderly  cordon  by  the  fence. 
He  seemed  about  to  ride  down  the  line,  and  then  he 
looked  at  his  watch. 

"Harlan,"  cried  Arne,  "we  brought  Wiley  back!" 

Curran  was  conscious  that  Janet,  at  his  side,  and 
Harlan  were  looking  at  each  other  with  a  significant 
silence.  He  was  going  to  speak  to  Harlan,  when  that 
young  man  slowly  motioned  to  him  to  leave  the  ma 
chine.  He  descended  and  went  along  the  rail  fence 
from  the  others. 

" Wiley,"  muttered  Harlan,  "will  you  go  in  there?" 

Wiley  glanced  at  the  Lindstrom  fort,  a  gray  and  si 
lent  frame  shack  in  the  midst  of  the  corn  stubble;  a 
stack,  a  broken-down  wagon,  and  the  well-house.  No 
sign  of  life,  nothing,  yet  from  a  window  here  and  there, 
with  bewildering  ubiquity,  the  deadly  rifle-shots  had 
rung  whenever  a  man  had  approached.  "John  will 
treat  with  you.  He  swore  you  were  the  only  man  in 
the  county  he  would  trust.  I  rode  near  an  hour  ago 
and  delivered  our  message.  Gave  him  two  hours  to 
surrender  or  take  the  consequences." 

"Harlan,  those  children !" 

"I  know.  And  his  wife — and  that  sneak  of  a  French 
man  is  there.  But — "  he  glanced  at  the  townspeople 
resolutely,  "they  left  it  to  me — and  I'll  not  endure  this ! 
Dead  or  alive,  we'll  take  him  this  morning — and  I'll 
not  answer  for  any  one.  I'll  lead  the  boys  when  the 
rush  comes,  Wiley !" 

The  elder  man  looked  up  at  him.  "Yes.  I'd  expect 
you."  He  was  seeking  an  answer  in  Harlan's  eyes — 
Harlan  must  know — surely  he  knew!  But  Curran 


THE   COMMUNAL   LAW  369 

could  not  speak,  so  great  was  the  press  of  this  other 
greater  matter. 

Harlan  put  out  his  hand.  "Wiley,  I  depend  on  you. 
If  they  can  be  saved — it  will  be  you!" 

Curran  looked  about.  Some  notion  that  Harlan  was 
doggedly  suffering  under  the  covert  gibes  of  the  spec 
tators  at  the  safe  distance — the  mob  who  knew  nothing 
of  the  exigencies  of  the  case — came  to  him.  Some  idea 
that  the  day  would  be  crucial  for  the  younger  man,  if 
he  flinched  under  the  responsibility. 

"I'll  go,"  he  answered,  and  for  the  first  time  since 
his  own  tragedy  began,  a  trace  of  the  old  friendly  smile 
came  to  his  lips.  At  the  fence  he  called  back :  "And  if 
he  does  not  come  ?" 

"The  law  will  have  to  take  its  course.  I  promise 
nothing !" 

Curran  drew  a  white  handkerchief  from  his  pocket 
as  he  crossed  the  field.  He  was  vaguely  aware  that 
Arne  Vance's  machine  had  turned  down  the  creek  road 
back  to  town.  But  keener  still  was  the  impression  that 
the  thousands  of  eyes  were  watching  him.  Presently 
he  heard  a  murmur  among  the  deputies,  taken  up, 
growing,  spreading  to  the  masses  of  people  away  be 
yond.  He  did  not  look  back.  They  knew  him,  they 
would  recognize  him,  the  recreant,  the  fallen  man  of 
the  county  who  would  have  been  their  leader.  Even 
when  a  straggling  shout  went  up,  he  did  not  turn;  it 
rang  with  a  wild  hysterical  note,  primal  with  hostility 
it  seemed  to  Curran.  Then  the  watchers  saw  him 
reach  the  house,  pause  at  the  door,  and  be  admitted. 

The  throng  began  to  murmur  again,  and  shift.  But 
many  stared  silently  at  the  house  in  the  bleak  field. 


3/0  THE    MIDLANDERS 

John  had  not  fired  at  "Curran  of  the  News".  They  be 
gan  to  mutter  and  argue  explanations.  The  corre 
spondents  went  off  to  put  more  "stuff"  on  the  wire 
about  this  turn  of  affairs.  And  after  fifteen  minutes, 
that  seemed  an  hour,  they  saw  Wiley  Curran  come  out 
of  the  house.  He  seemed  pleading;  and  they  saw  a 
boy's  tow  head  in  the  door.  And  presently,  Curran 
came  on.  He  crossed  the  field  in  a  great  silence.  Even 
the  nearer  people  did  not  crowd  up  to  listen  when  he 
reached  Harlan  sitting  his  horse  on  the  creek  road. 
Curran  spoke  quietly,  yet  it  seemed  his  voice  reached 
them  all,  so  acute  the  stillness. 

"He  will  not  surrender.  I  pleaded  every  point.  Told 
him  that  Lafe  Mason  offered  to  defend  him.  That  he'd 
have  a  fair  trial.  That  our  people  were  people  of  the 
law — they  would  give  him  justice.  I  begged  for  his 
wife  and  children.  But  he  told  his  old  story.  The  land 
was  his.  No  man  could  put  foot  on  it  until  he  was  paid. 
He  told  his  old  grievance.  The  law  sent  him  to  jail — • 
it  made  him  what  he  was.  Never  again  would  he  face 
man's  justice — God  was  the  supreme  judge — and  not 
Van  Hart." 

Van  Hart's  son  was  pale.  There  seemed  challenge 
and  indictment  in  the  other's  tone.  He  gathered  his 
reins  tighter.  "Well,  we'll  take  him." 

"Harlan — in  God's  name — those  children!" 

"He  had  his  choice." 

"Wait — "  Curran  stepped  nearer,  then  faced  as  if 
to  the  others. 

Harlan  turned  in  the  saddle.  He  lifted  his  hand  sol 
emnly.  "No  more.  There  is  your  answer — there  is  the 
law  !  The  people!  Ask  them,  Wiley !" 


THE   COMMUNAL   LAW  371 

Curran  glanced  back,  an  impulse  to  make  a  last  pas 
sionate  outcry  to  something,  he  knew  not  what.  But 
the  people — the  Midlanders,  indomitable,  contained, 
unfearing  the  final  issues  of  nothing.  Their  land,  their 
law — their  Saxon  strength  had  won  and  made  it 
through  bloody  centuries.  The  man  standing  alone 
seemed  to  read  their  will.  He  checked  his  cry.  What 
would  it  be  but  the  cry  of  a  broken  man,  a  discredited 
leader? — himself  without  place  among  them?  They 
had  not  spoken  now  at  the  crisis — they  had  approved 
by  this  silence.  Curran  bowed  his  head  in  a  sorrow 
that  only  the  light  of  heart  may  know. 

Then,  with  a  swift  remembrance,  he  stretched  his 
hands  to  Harlan. 

"For  God's  sake,  boy!  Wait — Aurelie  is  coming! 
And  you  love  her,  Harlan !" 

But  the  other  man  had  galloped  down  the  road, 
speaking  to  a  group  here  and  there.  The  deputies 
sprang  up  in  a  straggling  line.  Some  one  up  in  the 
quarry  face  fired  a  shot,  and  a  shout  rang  from  the 
farther  woods.  The  man  by  the  fence  watched  them 
silently.  He  turned  to  look  at  the  people.  They,  too, 
were  still,  steadfast;  absorbed  as  if,  from  a  mighty 
arena,  under  the  gray  stare  of  the  sky,  they,  the  rulers, 
the  arbiters,  watched  a  drama — the  conflict  of  eternal 
forces  which  would  destroy  what  they  ordained  to  de 
stroy,  and  save  what  they  ordained  to  be  saved.  That 
was  the  communal  law,  the  social  compact.  He  who 
set  himself  against  it  would  perish.  Curran  felt  its 
inexorableness — he,  too,  had  defied  it — and  it  had 
bided  its  time  to  destroy  him. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

LET  THERE  BE  PEACE 

JANET  and  Arne  Had  yielded  to  Old  Michigan's  en 
treaties  that  they  speed  back  to  the  Junction  to  meet 
the  Chicago  train.  Aurelie  would  come — he  clung  to  it 
with  a  sheer  and  piteous  obstinacy,  she  would  come! 
They  followed  the  old  man  as  he  pressed  through  the 
crowd  to  reach  the  cars. 

"Done  come,"  he  was  muttering.  "Always  she  done 
come  when  I  call!" 

Then  they  saw  his  worn  eyes  light.  Aurelie  was  on 
the  step,  descending.  And  behind  her,  leading  a  brindle 
bull-pup  and  looking  the  last  word  of  perplexed  em 
barrassment,  was  Rube  Van  Hart.  Behind  him  was  a 
pink-faced  and  immaculate  young  gentleman  who  also 
seemed  amazed  at  the  instant  murmur  that  went  up 
from  the  throng.  They  all  knew  her  and  knew  in  a 
flash  that  the  tragedy  at  Lindstrom's  place  had  sum 
moned  her. 

She  threw  herself  with  a  cry  of  joy  into  Uncle 
Mich's  arms,  her  face  buried  in  his  tobacco-colored 
whiskers,  and  the  long-stemmed  roses  she  had  carried 
now  scattered  over  his  shoulders.  A  vision  such  as 
Rome,  Iowa,  had  never  seen  outside  of  the  tin  opera- 
house.  Even  her  proper  traveling  costume  could  not 

372 


LET    THERE    BE    PEACE  373 

subdue  her  love  of  colors  or  repress  her  ingenuous 
sense  of  blossom  time,  all  that  eager,  palpitant  young 
life  sprung  from  the  gray  soil  of  penury  to  bill-poster 
grandeur!  She  all  but  upset  Uncle  Michigan  off  his 
peg-leg  with  her  affection,  overwhelming  him  with  lit 
tle  cries  and  explanations. 

And  all  the  time  Rube  Van  Hart,  who  had  met  her 
returning  from  Earlville,  where  he  had  been  on  a  horse 
trade  for  Carmichael,  stood  there  dangling  the  gold-col 
lared  bulldog.  As  he  told  the  express  agent,  he  had 
been  captured,  bound  and  gagged,  and  had  been  des 
perately  hoping  for  a  wreck  before  the  train  got  to 
where  home  folks  could  see  him  lassoed  to  a  violet- 
smelling  bull-pup  and  an  actress  lady!  Aurelie  had 
come  back  to  the  old  town  with  her  bull-pup  and  her 
press-agent. 

Uncle  Michigan  and  Rube  fought  a  way  for  her  to 
Arne  Vance's  motor-car.  The  young  gentleman  from 
the  Cohan  &  Snitz  publicity  bureau  followed.  It  was 
worth  his  job  to  lose  sight  of  Aurelie.  There  had  been 
a  tremendous  row  when  the  western  managers  for  Co 
han  &  Snitz  received  a  telephone  message  from  Aurelie 
at  midnight  that  she  would  not  play  at  the  next  day 
matinee,  because  she  was  going  out  to  Iowa  where  her 
"folks  had  shot  somebody".  They  had  roared  and 
cursed  and  dashed  after  her  in  a  taxicab  only  to  find 
that  she  had  dashed  ahead  of  them  to  the  union  sta 
tion.  Only  young  Mr.  Kaiser  had  made  the  train,  and 
immediately  the  Cohan  &  Snitz  people  had  wired  him 
at  every  station  to  make  the  most  of  it.  Great  press 
stuff,  this!  The  comedienne  of  The  Girl  and  the 
Burglar  going  out  at  midnight  to  settle  the  cause 


374  THE    MIDLANDERS 

celebre  that  all  the  West  was  agog  about.  They  rushed 
another  girl  into  the  part  and  then  began  to  boom 
the  "press  end". 

Young  Mr.  Kaiser  yelled  his  futile  protests  when  he 
saw  Aurelie  lifted  into  the  car.  He  snatched  at  the  ton- 
neau  and  Arne  Vance  pounded  him  over  the  fingers 
and  howled  :  "You  get  off,  damn  you !" 

They  dashed  away,  and  the  press-agent,  seizing  the 
bull-pup  from  Rube,  ran  for  the  nearest  conveyance. 
"Follow  'em,"  he  shouted.  "Keep  track  of  that  girl !" 

On  the  way  out  he  wearily  confided  in  the  hackman. 
"Take  it  from  me,  chasing  Miss  Lindstrom  around  over 
these  United  States  is  some  work.  She  wanted  to  stop 
the  Empire  State  Express  one  time  so  that  the  water 
wouldn't  splash  in  her  stateroom  bath  tub,  and  de 
nounced  the  conductor  all  the  way  to  New  York  when 
he  refused.  Say,  if  I  could  get  over  half  the  real  stories 
I  know  about  her  with  the  city  editors,  I'd  be  made  on 
Broadway !" 

"Hey  ?"  retorted  the  hackman.  "Used  to  see  that  kid 
sellin'  skinned  rabbits  at  the  grocery  not  so  many  years 
ago.  Young  man,  if  you  want  stories  about  Aurelie 
Lindstrom,  right  here's  the  place !" 

"Keep  a-going!"  yelled  the  publicity  man;  "if  she 
gets  out  of  sight  most  anything' s  liable  to  break — and 
I've  got  to  make  the  three  o'clock  editions  with  a  col 
umn  on  her !" 

Arne's  machine  tore  into  the  long  leafless  stretch  of 
creek  road  where  the  first  of  the  watchers  began  to  ap 
pear  in  the  buggies  and  carts.  Then  the  people  on  foot, 
a  throng  thickening  until  the  road  was  blocked ;  and 
the  dyspeptic  farmer-student,  swearing  at  them,  leaped 


LET    THERE    BE    PEACE  375 

out  and  kicked  away  a  panel  of  the  rail  fence.  He  sent 
the  big  car  smashing  through  and  it  went  lunging  over 
the  rough  and  frozen  ploughed  land.  Aurelie  had  sat 
very  still  and  pale,  holding  to  Uncle  Michigan's  hand. 
She  seemed  swiftly  understanding  it  all,  the  masses  of 
people,  the  sense  of  impending  horror,  the  acute  crisis. 
Uncle  Michigan  had  been  trying  to  tell  her;  Janet 
Vance  was  endeavoring  to  explain ;  and  her  big  black 
eyes  grew  wider  and  brighter. 

And  suddenly  from  the  woods  ahead  there  came  the 
spatter  of  rifle-shots.  Janet  put  her  hands  to  her  ears. 

"They  want  you,  Aurelie !  Maybe  you  can — maybe 
you  can!  He  would  not  listen  to  Wiley,  but  maybe 
you—" 

She  turned  swiftly.  "Mr.  Curran,  where  is  he?" 

Janet  ceased.  She  had  almost  forgotten  in  the  whirl 
of  events.  Dumbly  she  watched  the  girl,  striving  to 
guess  her  thought.  Curran,  crushed  with  his  agony, 
out  there  making  his  last  appeal — and  Aurelie,  sitting 
upright  staring  now  at  the  battle-field,  her  eyes  search 
ing  for  him.  She  had  asked  for  him !  And  slowly  an 
infinite  pity  came  to  Janet's  heart — Aurelie,  what  was 
she  thinking? 

When  the  machine  ground  past  a  fence  corner  a  man 
leaped  out  waving  a  shotgun. 

"Hold  on !  You  can't  go  farther !  Van  Hart  said  no 
one  could  go  closer !  They're  going  to  riddle  that  house 
next  time  Lindstrom  fires  a  shot !" 

Arne  jerked  his  throttle  wider  and  dashed  past. 
"They're  closing  in.  Oh,  Janet— they're  closing  in! 
Where's  Harlan— look  for  him !" 

"Harlan  ?"   Aurelie  arose,  her  hostile  eyes  leveled  at 


376  THE    MIDLANDERS 

the  line  of  deputies  climbing  the  fence.  "Go  on — go 
on !"  she  cried. 

The  guards  were  yelling  at  them.  From  the  creek 
side  of  the  field  another  shot  rang  out.  Janet,  looking 
that  way,  saw  Harlan  mounted,  motioning  to  the  men. 
Then  from  Lindstrom's  house  came  the  spurt  of  a  gun, 
and  one  of  Harlan's  group  fell  face  downward  at  his 
feet.  They  scattered. 

"Arne,"  his  sister  whispered,  "get  word  to  him — to 
Harlan,  that  she's  here." 

He  stopped  the  big  car  with  a  jerk.  And  as  he  was 
climbing  out,  with  the  whir  of  the  machine,  and  the 
warning  shouts  of  the  deputies  in  their  ears,  they  did 
not  notice  that  Aurelie  had  slipped  from  the  other  side. 
Not  until  Old  Michigan  raised  a  cry  did  Janet  turn  to 
see  the  open  door  behind  her. 

Thirty  feet  away  Aurelie  was  running.  She  had 
thrown  her  furs  from  her,  scattering  the  roses  among 
the  frozen  clods,  and  was  flying  onward  to  her  old 
home  two  hundred  yards  across  the  field.  The  deputies 
were  shouting.  Arne  saw  her  now.  He  turned  to  fol 
low.  Janet  sprang  out,  a  cry  on  her  lips.  Old  Michigan 
uprose,  calling  his  pleadings. 

Janet  stopped.  There  was  nothing  she  could  do. 
The  panorama  was  spread  before  her  like  a  moving 
picture:  the  bleak  corn-stubbled  field,  the  gray  little 
house  detached  in  the  winter  sunlight,  a  film  of  smoke 
over  its  gable ;  and  on  all  three  sides  of  it  a  straggling 
line  of  men  advancing,  firing  here  and  there,  yelling 
insanely,  loading  to  fire  again.  The  spatter  of  shots 
thickened ;  it  became  a  volley ;  the  blue  smoke  hid  the 
farther  fence,  the  masses  of  people  far  beyond  under 


LET    THERE    BE    PEACE  377 

the  leafless  trees.  From  the  gable  of  Lindstrom's  house 
came  a  single  report,  sharp  from  its  nearness.  A  man 
of  the  line  went  down. 

She  saw  Harlan  coming  with  the  posse  from  the 
other  side.  Her  brother  was  running  faster,  but  Au- 
relie  was  far  beyond  him  flying  on  with  her  old  wood 
land  litheness.  Then  another  figure  caught  Janet's  eye. 
Wiley  Curran  had  leaped  the  fence  from  among  the 
deputies  and  had  outstripped  them.  He  was  shouting; 
and  the  angle  of  his  course  would  cut  Aurelie  off  from 
the  house.  Janet  cried  out  to  him.  She  saw  the  men 
beyond  the  house,  under  Harlan's  orders,  stopping  to 
fire  coolly,  deliberately,  at  the  window  from  which 
Lindstrom  was  riddling  the  deputies. 

Then  came  the  crash  of  a  volley  louder  than  all  else. 
And  she  saw  her  brother  stop  short  midway  between 
her  and  the  veil  of  smoke.  He  was  staring  at  a  patch 
of  color,  maroon  and  glistening  black  plumes,  against 
the  gray  of  the  guns  and  the  wintry  woods. 

In  the  moment's  intermission  following  the  volley 
they  saw  a  man  step  from  the  door, — a  tall  grim  fig 
ure,  staggering  in  the  acrid  haze  of  the  powder  smoke 
and  then  coming  on  alone,  upright,  majestic. 

Aurelie  was  flying  to  him.  The  outlaw  did  not  stop 
—she  flung  herself  against  him,  clasping  him,  looking 
up ;  and  John  merely  put  his  stub  of  an  arm  about  the 
girl,  holding  her  close  as  if  to  shelter  her,  and  came  on, 
his  Winchester  swinging  up  to  his  other  shoulder  as 
he  strode. 

He  fired  squarely  into  the  line  of  his  advancing  ene 
mies.  A  man  dropped;  he  fired  again,  again,  again, 
cool,  sure,  merciless,  the  mutter  of  a  prayer  upon  his 


378  THE    MIDLANDERS 

lips,  the  pleadings  of  the  girl  within  his  ears.  But  he 
would  not  stop.  The  God  who  ruled  above  man's 
petty  justice  was  with  him ;  he  had  come  forth  to  save 
his  wife  and  children  from  the  hurricane  of  bullets 
slivering  his  home,  but  he  yielded  nothing. 

The  girl  clinging  to  him  was  trying  to  reach  his 
neck,  seeking  to  draw  him  down,  to  kiss  his  gaunt 
lined  cheek,  it  seemed.  And  he  did  stop.  They  saw 
his  left  arm  swing  the  rifle  down  until  he  was  clasp 
ing  Aurelie,  listening  to  her,  moved  by  her.  Then 
from  the  groups  of  men  about  the  cottage,  who  could 
not  see  what  those  on  this  side  could  see,  came  the 
crash  of  another  volley.  From  the  fence  Janet  saw 
Curran  running  on,  reaching  out  his  hand,  and  then 
stopping  to  stare  through  the  thickening  smoke  about 
the  cottage. 

Janet  knew  a  great  silence  had  come.  Van  Hart's 
line  of  men  had  stopped.  They  were  staring — all  the 
hundreds  of  people  were  staring.  Janet  knew  Lind- 
strom  was  down,  riddled  by  the  deputies  behind  him. 
And  that  Aurelie  had  fallen  not  twenty  yards  from  her 
old  home.  The  roses  she  had  clung  to  as  she  ran  lay 
red  and  scattered  about  her  on  the  frozen  clods.  Cur- 
ran  was  kneeling  by  her.  And  the  silence  held  as  if 
earth  and  sky — the  gray  lonely  land  with  a  glint  of  sun 
through  the  clouds — had  hushed  to  hear,  had  hollowed 
to  hold  the  agony  that  broke  from  Curran's  heart. 

When  Janet  and  Arne  reached  them,  Curran  had 
turned  Aurelie's  face  upward.  Curran  himself  was 
bloody  from  a  tassel  of  a  wound  torn  across  his  fore 
head.  Men  were  in  and  about  the  bullet-swept  and 
burning  house,  kicking  away  the  barricade  of  boxes 


LET    THERE    BE    PEACE  379 

from  the  door.  Under  the  window  they  found  Ladeau 
dead,  his  lips  forever  sealed,  and  in  another  room  lay 
Albert  the  pedler,  his  piteous  life  come  to  the  inevita 
ble  nothingness.  The  woman  and  children,  burrowed 
in  the  cellar,  cold,  starved,  were  unhurt. 

But  out  on  the  frozen  field  a  group  had  formed. 
Curran  knelt  to  watch  his  child's  face.  Harlan  had 
dismounted  and  was  staring.  He  could  not  speak  as 
Curran  wiped  the  blood  from  his  eyes  and  muttered : 

"She  kept  crying  for  you  to  stop.  Couldn't  you 
see?  Couldn't  you  hear?  Crying  to  you,  Harlan,  to 
stop.  That  she  loved  you — with  all  her  soul  she  loved 
you !" 

The  other  man's  lips  moved  uselessly.  Then  he 
turned  to  the  others.  "Your  machine,  Arne!  Quick!" 

Stooping,  he  seized  the  girl's  body.  The  father  clung 
to  her  and  it  was  as  if  the  two  were  fighting  for  her 
possession.  Then  Harlan  whirled  back,  with  the  blood 
from  her  lips  staining  his  shoulder.  "Keep  back, 
Wiley.  The  machine — quick  .  ,  .  Home."  And 
as  they  all  ran,  Curran  trying  to  keep  her  hand  in 
his,  as  it  hung  from  Harlan's  arm,  the  younger  man 
kept  muttering :  "I  didn't  know — God  help  me,  Wiley 
—I  didn't  know!" 

They  thrust  Old  Michigan  aside  in  the  car  and  were 
in.  The  two  men  seemed  again  struggling  to  hold  her, 
as  the  machine  ground  off  through  the  field.  Janet  was 
conscious  of  the  awed  white  faces — thousands  of  them, 
it  seemed — along  the  roads  to  town.  Only  they  knew 
that  "Michigan's  girl"  was  being  borne  from  her  old 
home  now  shot-riddled  and  burning,  and  that  the  out 
law  of  the  Pocket  was  dead.  They  could  not  hear 


380  THE    MIDLANDERS 

Mich's  bewildered  mumbling  in  the  car,  or  Wiley  Cur- 
ran,  as  he  shifted  his  child's  body  from  the  widening 
pools  of  blood  on  the  cushions,  whispering:  "Calling 
to  you,  boy,  just  kept  on  going — calling  that  she  loved 
you !" 

The  car  was  in  the  Van  Hart  yard.  Harlan  dragged 
his  burden  from  them,  silent,  fierce  with  possession. 
He  laid  her  on  a  bed  on  the  lower  floor  before  his 
mother  knew  of  their  entrance.  In  the  hall  Janet  Vance 
was  trying  to  comfort  Michigan  who  babbled  on  about 
his  little  girl — the  little  girl  he  had  done  brought  up- 
river.  They  were  trying  to  take  her  away  from  him-r- 
they  would  not  let  him  touch  her  hand.  The  Yankees 
had  killed  her,  someway  or  other. 

The  judge's  wife  touched  Harlan's  shoulder  as  he 
knelt:  'Telephone  for  the  doctor,"  he  said— -"for 
Brown  and  Lenberg  both.  And  a  nurse.  Go !" 

He  stopped  the  question  on  her  lips,  a  young  Caesar 
grasping  power  as  her  Roman  matron's  pride  in  him 
would  have  had.  She  turned  and  went  out  without 
word  to  the  telephone.  In  the  hall  she  found  Michigan, 
a  shaggy  animal  tortured  beyond  further  outcry,  sway 
ing  his  head  and  whispering:  "Done  come — done 
come,  Lord!" 

When  she  went  back  the  two  men  were  by  Aurelie's 
side.  They  had  been  muttering  to  each  other.  Curran 
was  staring  at  the  younger. 

"You  knew — last  night?  How  could  you  know?" 

"Father  told  me.  And  Tanner—  We  choked  it  out 
of  him.  And  no  one  else  knows,  Wiley.  Ladeau  is 
dead — and  Tanner  dares  not  speak.  I'd  swing  him  to 
the  pen — as  I'll  drive  him  out  of  the  county!"  Then 


LET    THERE    BE    PEACE  38r 

Harlan's  new-found  wonder  broke  again.  "But  your 
little  girl,  Wiley !" 

"Yes — God  help  me.  I  let  her  grow  up  any  way — 
without  care,  without  love.  Just  fighting  her  own  way, 
always !  I  never  could  understand  what  moved  me  so 
about  her — the  delight  she  gave  me.  And  you,  boy — 
you  thought" — he  whispered  it — "she'd  come  between 
us!  Why,  she  loved  you  always — put  it  away  in  her 
mighty  pride — but  loved  you  always!  Why,  with  all 
her  laughter  and  her  playing  I  never  dreamed  of  lov 
ing  her  as  you  did.  Oh,  the  wonder  of  it !  She  led  me 
on  to  her  land  of  joy !" 

"Be  still!"  the  younger  man  muttered.  "She's  try 
ing  to  say  something.  Home!  She's  home  now — " 
Harlan's  eyes  went  to  his  mother  cool,  fair,  listening 
by  the  bedside;  he  slipped  his  arm  down  about  Au- 
relie's  head  to  watch  the  fleck  of  crimson  on  her  lips. 
"Home,  mother !" 

The  mother  put  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder;  the 
other  on  Aurelie's  brow.  "You'd  better  go  now.  The 
doctors  are  here.  She's  shot  low  in  the  side.  Will  you 
leave  her  a  moment?" 

Cur  ran  was  moving  to  the  door.  But  Harlan,  as  he 
tried  to  rise,  found  Aurelie's  fingers  stealing  through 
his  hair ;  he  was  listening  to  his  name  upon  her  lips. 

Mrs.  Van  Hart  was  with  Curran  as  he  passed  out. 
With  a  gesture  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  "There 
are  things  beyond  us  all,  Mr.  Curran.  Deeps  of  life 
that  move  and  sweep  us  all  to  things  we  have  never 
dreamed — that  we  can  not  evade  or  compromise.  And 
so  we  accept — with  courage  and  with  gladness.  I  am 
sorry — humbly  sorry  .  .  .  will  you  believe  me  ?" 


382  THE    MIDLANDERS 

He  looked  long  at  her  and  his  face  did  not  soften. 

"A  word  from  you — a  kind  word — any  little  gra 
cious  act  would  have  changed  it  all.  Would  have 
given  her  to  Harlan  long  ago  and  saved  us  this.  It's 
hard  to  forget" — his  brief  smile  came  bitterly:  "All 
this  life  of  hers  that  you  held  cheap,  unworthy — her 
love  for  your  son  kept  her  good  and  fine  and  simple 
through  it  all  ...  and  that  meant  nothing  to 
you." 

"I'm  sorry,"  the  mother  whispered.  "He  will  have 
his  way — and  we  accept.  Some  day  shall  we  tell  her 
all?" 

"Yes.    But  not  now." 

"Why  not  now?"  The  mother  stirred  in  the  door 
way. 

"She  is  not  so  badly  hurt,  they  say.  And  Harlan  is 
trying  to  explain.  What  is  greater  than  the  truth  for 
her?" 

Curran  stared  at  her,  holding  her  cool  fingers  for  an 
instant,  then  looking  in  the  half  dark  of  the  room. 

"Tell  her?"  he  muttered.  Then  drew  back.  But  a 
sound  from  within  came  to  him.  Aurelie's  tired  smile 
had  ended  in  a  sigh  with  Harlan's  murmurings.  The 
physicians  had  stood  apart. 

Curran  went  in.  The  mother  in  the  hall,  coming 
nearer  from  the  telephone  presently,  heard  a  cry,  then 
all  their  voices  low  and  awed.  She  looked  in  as  she 
passed,  for  she  would  not  enter.  The  men  were  on 
either  side  the  bed,  holding  Aurelie's  hands.  Mrs.  Van 
Hart  could  not  hear  what  they  said,  the  girl  lying 
white-faced  and  still,  and  the  men  bending  to  her. 

But  after  a  while  Curran  rose  and  came  out.    The 


LET    THERE    BE    PEACE  383 

mother  in  the  hall  saw  him  pass,  and  the  glitter  of 
tears  was  on  his  cheeks.  He  found  Janet  in  the  win 
dow-seat  as  he  reached  the  door.  The  mother  heard 
his  voice  rise  joyfully. 

"She  said  that  dreams  come  true,  Janet !  Yes — good 
dreams,  child  dreams,  .like  those  that  sent  her  out  to 
find  and  love  me.  Oh,  you  should  have  heard  her  say 
it,  Janet !  Father — the  proudness  of  it  on  her  lips !" 

Janet  went  with  him  out  into  the  bleak  night. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Wiley?" 

"I  don't  know.  Yes — back  to  the  shop — my  old  shop. 
I  thought  of  leaving — selling  out,  for  no  one'll  ever 
understand.  But  I'll  stay — I'll  fight  it  out.  Face  it  all 
with  silence — the  defeat  and  questions — and  fight  it 
out — for  Aurelie's  sake.  It's  safer — it's  better  for  her, 
Janet." 

They  were  passing  High  Street,  along  which  a  few 
people  were  still  coming.  The  thousands  had  melted 
away  from  the  tragic  field  out  the  creek  road.  They 
crossed  the  Square,  and  at  the  corner  of  his  office  he 
stopped.  The  lights  were  coming  here  and  there  in  the 
stores,  but  the  place  seemed  yet  deserted,  so  still  that 
the  creak  of  the  frosty  trees  on  the  bluff  came  down  to 
them.  Curran  paused  while  Janet  tore  the  hem  from 
her  skirt  and  bound  again  his  forehead  where  a  buck 
shot  had  furrowed  it. 

"What  an  election  day!"  she  whispered.  "I  don't 
think  half  the  county  vote  was  cast,  Wiley.  But  there's 
the  Mercury- Journal  carrier  coming  from  the  interur- 
ban — and  the  polls  closed  at  six." 

He  had  no  word  as  he  watched  her  buy  a  paper  from 
the  boy.  When  she  turned,  he  had  gone  in  the  News 


384  THE    MIDLANDERS 

office  and  was  looking  at  the  grimy  old  press  and  the 
worn  cases. 

"Come  here,  Wiley !" 

"Yes  ?"  He  went  over  and  looked  down  with  somber 
eyes  to  the  sheet  she  had  spread  upon  his  desk. 

"The  Lindstrom  story"  had  five  columns  of  the  front. 
But  across  the  other  two  was  this  head : 

"Concede  Curran's  Election." 

He  looked  up  at  Janet  with  a  mutter:  "Election? 
Didn't  they  see  the  News  last  night  ?" 

"No.   Come  out  in  the  back  yard,  Wiley." 

He  followed  to  where  she  pointed  to  the  heap  of 
burned  paper  half-way  along  the  path  to  his  cottage. 

"For  the  first  time  in  fifty  years  there  was  no  issue 
of  the  News  this  week !"  She  was  laughing  at  his  be 
wilderment.  "To-morrow,  when  the  excitement  is 
over,  people'll  wonder  why — but  they'll  never  know!" 

"They— they  elected  me !" 

"Of  course.  And  the  Tanner  board  will  resign — 
every  one  of  them! — and  Thad,  too,  from  the  county 
chairmanship !  Oh,  Wiley,  we  played  more  than  poli 
tics  yesterday !  Ask  Harlan !" 

He  sat  down.  "Harlan?  It's  up  to  Harlan — every 
thing  is  up  to  Harlan!  He'll  protect  my  little  girl — 
he'll  marry  her.  Janet!  How  everything  about  her 
caught  me — appealed  to  that  old  wandering  romance 
in  me  that  I  never  could  put  by !  Eh,  I'm  forty,  now — 
I'm  a  damned  fool!  Well,  it's  the  long  straight  road, 
now — for  me." 

"To  Washington,"  she  murmured.  "And  always  on  \ 
Oh,  Wiley !  I'm  proud  that  when  the  blow  fell  you  did 


LET    THERE    BE    PEACE  385 

not  cringe  nor  whimper !   You  did  not  run  away — you 
came  back  here  to-night  to  work  again !" 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  trace  of  his  old  humor 
lightening  the  sadness.  "Because  of  you,  Janet.  And 
Harlan,  and  a  few — just  as  you've  always  done!  Help 
— oh,  how  I  need  help!"  He  buried  his  face  in  his 
arm  upon  the  desk:  "I  need  you,  Janet.  I  can*  do 
without  you — I  never  could,  damn  me — but  I  didn't 
know  it!  Washington  ...  I  want  you  .  .  . 
You  sent  me  there." 

She  was  laughing  in  a  curious  abnegation  as  she 
placed  her  hand  down  to  his  head.  "You  can't  do 
without  me,  Wiley!  When  your  old  boy's  romance 
was  at  its  best,  I  knew  you  needed  me  the  worst.  I 
saw  it  in  your  eyes — always !  The  new  efficient  wom 
an — the  helper,  the  companion — " 

"The  near  woman — the  dear  woman  .  .  . "  he 
murmured. 

They  did  not  hold  each  other  in  long  embraces,  gaze 
into  each  other's  eyes  or  murmur  unutterable  things. 
They  were  man  and  woman,  tried  and  knowing.  They 
would  see  each  other  with  magic  clearness,  love  each 
what  the  other  loved  and  work  all  their  lives  long  for 
that  and  for  the  amazing  interest  they  had  in  each 
other.  That  would  be  living. 

"Eh!    Those  youngsters!"  cried  Wiley  out  of  this 
fine  understanding.    "There's  the  problem— it's  all  be 
fore  them  to  work  out.   Ours  is  quite  done,  dear !" 
*  ****** 

When  they  came  back  from  Washington  at  the  end 
of  Curran's  second  term — where,  by  the  way  he 


386  THE    MIDLANDERS 

achieved  a  far  better  name  as  a  humorist  than  a  states 
man — they  drove  up  High  Street  and  the  thought  was 
with  them  both — how  had  the  problem  worked  its  way 
out. 

They  saw  Aurelie  chasing  her  two  babies  over  the 
Van  Hart  lawn  trying  to  recapture  them  to  place  in 
the  carriage.  The  lively  ingenuous  wife,  still  the 
happy  little  outlaw  in  the  eyes  of  High  Street,  never 
able  quite  to  hit  it  off  with  her  mother-in-law,  but  un 
caring  for  that.  At  least  she  had  held  the  adoration  of 
her  husband  through  the  uprise  of  his  fighting  life, 
pleased  his  friends  and  discomfited  his  enemies  with 
equal  gaiety. 

She  ran  across  to  meet  them,  and  to  lift  her  black- 
eyed  boy  to  Mr.  Curran. 

"We're  getting  up  a  charity  fiesta — and  I'm  going 
to  appear  at  the  tin  opera-house  as  Cinderella.  I  think 
everybody'll  come  to  see  me — it  makes  such  a  differ 
ence  who  one  is.  Uncle  Mich  says  at  last  we  done 
come  to  the  land  o'  joy!" 


THE  END 


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